LINCOLN  ROOM 

UNIVERSITY  OF  ILLINOIS 
LIBRARY 


MEMORIAL 

the  Class  of  1901 

founded  by 

HARLAN  HOYT  HORNER 

and 
HENRIETTA  CALHOUN  HORNER 


LINCOLN 


IN  THE 


BLACK   HAWK  WAR 

An  Epos  of  the  Northwest 


BY 


DENTON  J.  SNIDER 


ST.  LOUIS,   MO., 

SIGMA  PUBLISHING  CO 

(For  Sale  by  A.  C.  M'Clut"  CR.  Co.,  Booksellers,  Chicago,  His.) 


KUDU-JONES 
PRINTING  CO. 


MINT   LOUIS 
MISSOURI 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS. 


PAGB 

CANTO  1 5 

Captain  Abraham  Lincoln. 

CANTO  II 41 

The  Conflict  of  Races. 

CANTO  III 73 

Lincoln  at  New  Salem. 

CANTO  IV 107 

Black  Hawk  and  Keokuk. 

CANTO  V 146 

Lincoln's  March 

CANTO  VI 194 

Black  Hawk's  March 

(3) 


4  TABLE  OF  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

CANTO  VII 229 

Lincoln's  Double  Oath. 

CANTO  VIII 263 

The  Indian  Tragedy. 

CANTO  IX 297 

Lincoln's  Return. 

CANTO  X 339 

Home  Again. 

HISTORIC  INTIMATIONS..  .  362 


Canto  Jftrsit. 

CAPTAIN  ABRAHAM  LINCOLN. 
I. 

Sunshiny  little  April  showers 

Would  whirl  from  Heaven's  cloudy  towers, 

A  slanting  coverlet  of  rain 

Down  on  the  grassy  bed  of  plain, 

Which  seemed  each  water-drop  to  flatter 

And  answer  with  a  kiss  the  patter; 

Afar  the  feathery  greenery 

Filled  full  of  love  the  scenery, 

Which  in  the  longing  heart  would  stir 

Sweet  fancy  to  a  tender  whirr. 

Then  Spring  would  prime  her  watering  pot 

Up  in  the  skies  where  every  dot 

Of  fog  she  gathered  to  her  store, 

When  she  again  began  to  pour 

(5) 


6      CANTO    1.— CAPTAIN    ABRAHAM    LINCOLN. 

Her  glossy  globules  in  long  lines  down  dash- 
ing, 

And  on  the  face  of  the  pedestrian  splashing. 
Thus  intermittent  vernal  showers 
Kept  playing  up  and  down  the  hours, 
Building  the  day  of  cloud  and  sheen, 
With  rainbows  arching  them  between, 
On  which  the  troubled  human  sight 
Could  glance  its  way  from  dark  to  bright. 
The  muffled  trumpeter  on  high 
Whose  peal  is  thunder  out  the  sky 
Would  downward  hurl  his  sudden  blast — 
Of  earth  it  seemed  the  very  last, 
As  if  he  tried  on  his  trump  to  play 
The  signal  of  the  judgment  day. 

Now  through  this  elemental  war 

Resounding  o'er  him  from  afar, 

Young  Abraham  Lincoln  you  may  see 

Walking  alone,  unstrung  his  form, 

Thinking  about  what  is  to  be, 

Unmindful  of  the  shine  or  storm. 

He  dreams,  too,  of  New  Salem,  whence  he 

hails, 

Where  he  has  quit  his  splitting  rails, 
Has  flung  down  axe  and  wedge  and  maul, 
For  he  has  heard  another  call- 
Where,  too,  he  is  a  candidate 
To  be  lawgiver  to  the  State, 
And  where  runs  singing  Sangamon 


JOURNEY   TO   RICH  LAND.  7 

Which  he  in  soul  oft  floats  upon. 

Thither  he  will  be  soon  returning 

When  the  war-cloud  passes  over, 

It  is  the  very  heart  of  all  his  yearning, 

For  Lincoln,  too,  is  lover; 

Awake,  adream,  he  cannot  help  but  render 

Unto  that  town  and  stream  a  service  tender. 

But  now  he  moves  the  other  way, 

Although  not  very  long  may  be  his  stay; 

He  goes  the  proclamation  to  obey, 

In  which  the  Governor  demands, 

Some  troops  to  quell  the  Indian  bands 

Of  Black  Hawk  in  their  fierce  foray, 

Whose  bloody  hope  dares  all  whites  slay 

And  blooming  farms  in  ashes  lay. 

So  Lincoln  starts  on  his  new  path 

To  bring  to  the  red  slayer  scath, 

And  yet  a  deep  recoil  he  hath. 

Noiseless  the  brooding  mist  from  Heaven  fell 

Around  him,  and  a  far  foreboding  spell 

Awoke,  and  heaved   with  throbbings  of   his 

heart, 

Which  slowly  seemed  atwain  to  part 
And  with  itself  by  turns  to  talk, 
Wooing  the  way  by  misty  walk. 
Two  souls  within  him  face  each  other, 
Yet  he  to  both  is  the  one  brother. 
At  last  the  cleaving  of  the  cloud 
Bids  him  let  fall  his  inner  shroud, 


g      CANTO    I.— CAPTAIN    ABRAHAM    LINCOLN. 

A  little  prairie  run  lie  fords, 

And  there  breaks  into  spoken  words: 

"My  gift  has  been  still  to  forgive, 

In  mercy  I  my  days  would  live; 

And  yet  within  I  feel  a  strife 

Which  stabs  me  at  the  source  of  life; 

My  father's  father  I  can  see 

Drop  dead  beside  a  giant  tree 

Which  he  was  felling  in  a  wood, 

Where  he,  of  harm  unconscious,  stood ; 

The  enemy  not  far  away 

Secreted  in  the  bushes  lay, 

And  treacherous  took  a  deadly  aim 

At  him  from  whom  I  bear  my  name. 

That  bullet,  by  an  Indian  shot 

Is  shaping  now  my  earthly  lot ; 

I  feel  it  plowing  in  my  brain, 

And  slaying  still  afresh  the  slain; 

To-day  I  am  impelled  to  fight 

By  that  transmitted  bullet's  might 

My  father,  Thomas  Lincoln,  stood 

Beside  his  father  gurgling  blood, 

A  little  lad  of  soft  six  years 

Shedding  his  hapless,  hopeless  tears ; 

A  tomahawk  was  whizzing  round  his  head 

When  the  redskin  there  reeled  over  dead, 

Shot    by    the    quick-eyed    brother    who  was 

bigger, 

Who  from  the  near-by  cabin  pulled  the  trig- 
ger. 


JOURNEY  TO   RIG  ELAND.  9 

But  fatherless  became  the  home 

On  the  frontier,  where  wild  men  roam, 

Eeady  for  any  bloody  deed 

To  sate  their  vengeance  or  their  greed. 

This  story  have  I  often  heard 

Told  at  the  fireside,  till  upstirred 

I  felt  to  retribution  of  my  blood, 

When  I  grew  up  a  man,  and  could 

From  my  own  tracks  give  back  the  blow 

Dealt  at  me  by  the  stoutest  foe. 

And  yet  shall  I  my  blood  deny? 

Another  voice  bids  me  defy 

The  surging  of  the  vengeful  strains 

Which  trickle  down  ancestral  veins, 

And  turn  to  a  red  battle-field  my  brains." 

While  thus  his  musings  to  him  spoke, 
At  once  his  weaving  fancy  broke 
Its  fine-spun  thread  and  stopped  his  talk 
With  self ;  he  hardly  dared  to  walk 
Ahead  in  usual  striding  gait, 
Although  he  knew  'twas  getting  late, 
And  the  muster  might  not  for  him  wait. 
Right  on  his  path  a  cloud  throws  down 
In  wrath  a  sunless  savage  frown, 
And  stutters  doom  in  clashing  claps  of  thun- 
der 

Which  its  black  bosom  tear  asunder, 
And  overturn  the  contents  all 
Into  one  woful  waterfall 


10    CANTO    I.— CAPTAIN    ABRAHAM    LINCOLN. 

Swirling  him  in  its  swashing  sheet, 
So  that  he  scarce  can  keep  his  feet. 
The  forked  lightning  fiercely  stabs 
His  eyesight  with  a  dozen  jabs, 
And  fain  would  break  into  his  brain 
As  if  to  sear  it  of  a  stain, 
Leaving  an  inward  blank  of  pain 
Which  blinds  him  to  the  light  of  day, 
So  that  he  cannot  see  his  way. 
He  wondered  at  the  white-hot  levin 
Which  flung  a  bolt  at  him  from  Heaven, 
And  listened  in  his  halted  breath 
To  hear  the  messenger  of  death. 
But  when  he  had  regained  his  eye 
And  looked  anew  up  to  the  sky, 
How  changed  the  tide  of  circumstance ! 
A  cataract  of  radiance 
Falls  slanting  to  him  from  the  sun 
Through  gorges  deep  of  cloudland  dun, 
And  racing  down  the  sunbeam's  slope 
Eoll  the  bright  caravans  of  Hope. 

Lincoln  resumed  his  former  stride, 
Yet  floated  on  an  inward  tide 
Which  flooded  to  the  brim  his  soul, 
As  he  read  in  the  future 's  scroll : 
"And  still  I  would  not  hate  a  man, 
Let  his  skin  be  a  coppered  tan ; 
I  hate  the  hate  of  race, 
Little  it  hath  of  grace ; 


JOURNEY   TO   RICH  LAND.  JJ 

But  still  I  feel  that  blob  of  lead 

Burrowing  Abraham  Lincoln's  head 

Before  I  ever  saw  the  light 

Which  lifted  these  two  eyelids  out  of  night. 

Grandfather  mine,  Oh,  Abraham, 

Thy  fate  my  brain  must  still  embalm, 

With  thee  I  interlink  in  name, 

And  in  the  blood  from  which  I  came. 

But  a  yet  deeper  tie  I  feel, 

On  mine  thy  death  has  set  its  seal, 

In  me  thy  dark  foreshadow  I  descry : 

By  bullet  in  the  brain  I,  too,  shall  die." 

The  sentence  scarcely  had  he  uttered 

When  all  the  empyrean  muttered 

In  louder-growing  growls  around  him, 

Which  seemed  in  forecast  to  confound  him; 

Down  Heaven's  hills  of  clouded  zones 

Zeus  bowls  his  heaviest  thunder-stones, 

Cracks  the  huge  reservoir  of  storm 

Above  that  solitary  form; 

The  deluge  falls  together  in  a  crash, 

And  on  the  patient  earth  doth  ply  its  lash 

Plaited  of  million  million  rain-drawn  strands 

Which  whip  from  skiey  dome  the  lowly  lands. 

The  thunder  seemed  to  punctuate 

What  that  one  man  would  state, 

And  wrote  down  in  its  dripping  ink 

Whatever  he  might  think, 

And  the  quick  letters  of  the  lightning's  writ 


12    CANTO    I.— CAPTAIN    ABRAHAM    LINCOLN. 

Stirred  in  him  a  prophetic  wit, 

While  Heaven's  deep  reverberating  chords 

Found  echo  in  his  words. 

Soon  to  a  drizzle  swooned  the  sheeted  rain, 
The  dark  demoniac  clouds  took  wings, 
No  more  was  felt  their  heavy  watery  chain, 
Which  thralled  the    earth's  aspiring  under- 
lings. 

Lincoln  picked  up  his  mind  again 
Just  where  the  thunderbolt  shot  it  atwain, 
By  mighty  claps  of  cannonade 
Eoaring  as  if  the  globe  must  be  unmade, 
And  in  its  cosmic  graveyard  laid. 
But  now  he  muses,  once  more  whirled 
From  the  wild  outer  to  his  inner  world, 
Calls  up  afresh  the  image  gory 
Which  reddens  his  ancestral  story : 
1 '  My  father 's  tale  it  was,  his  only  tale, 
And  he  rehearsing  it  would  tremble  pale, 
The  terror  of  the  child  reveal 
Which  I,  a  child,  would  also  feel. 
It  ne'er  grew  stale  to  me,  a  boy, 
Who  found  in  story  all  my  joy; 
I  heard  the  feats  of  border  fights 
Between  the  Indians  and  the  Whites, 
Eecounted  in  heroic  way 
By  heroes  who  had  led  the  fray. 
Of  these  one  far  surpassed  the  rest 
E'en  though  they  did  their  very  best— 


JOURNEY  TO   RICH  LAND.  13 

The  frontier  hero  of  the  West 

He  rose,  enduring  every  test; 

And  still  my  heart  thrills  to  the  rune 

Which  chants  the  deeds  of  Daniel  Boone." 

Here  Lincoln  whirled  around  to  see 

What  now  the  judgment  of  the  skies  might  be ; 

Then  picked  he  up  the  fallen  thread, 

Still  talking  to  himself,  he  said: 

"Our  Governor  a  call  to  arms 

Has  sent  to  all  these  scattered  farms 

To  meet  with  like  the  red  man's  harms; 

I  shall  pay  back  my  Indian  debt 

Inherited,  but  paid  not  yet. 

There 's  not  a  man  on  this  frontier 

Who  has  not  felt  what  I  feel  here 

And  with  it  dropped  the  trickling  tear — 

Who  could  not  tell  my  story's  counterpart 

Oft  with  a  fiercer  frenzy  of  the  heart, 

And  fiercer  flashes  of  the  eye 

From  burning  wells  of  memory, 

Which  now  burst  up  along  the  ways 

And  set  the  prairies  all  ablaze. 

The  borderers  rise,  and  on  the  run 

They  mass  themselves  with  shouldered  gun, 

To  turn  back  on  the  savage 

His  self-same  bloody  ravage. 

For  generations  back  my  kin 

Right  on  this  battle-line  have  been— 

This  battle-line  'tween  white  and  red 


14    CANTO    I.— CAPTAIN    ABRAHAM    LINCOLN. 

Which  will  be  drawn  till  one  be  dead ; 

Yet  this  my  own  reproach  I  have  to  face : 

How  can  you  help  destroy  a  race  ? ' ' 

So  Lincoln  strode  along  the  way 

And  let  the  rain  strive  with  the  ray, 

He  fought  all  in  himself  a  fray; 

He  was  both  sides,  was  joy  and  rue, 

Was  victor  and  the  vanquished  too, 

Was  right  and  wrong,  was  good  and  bad, 

An  inward  civil  war  he  had, 

He  overjoyed  in  gladness, 

He  oversighed  in  sadness, 

When  his  embattled  hosts  of  brain  would  meet 

In  triumph  and  defeat. 

II. 

He  came  unto  a  meadow  brook 

On  which  a  willow  drew  his  look. 

Its  wattled  head  seemed  bowed  in  prayer, 

As  shrouded  in  a  holy  hood, 

And  breathed  an  introverted  mood 

Along  the  silent  gloaming  air ; 

Each  twig  drooped  earthward  in  devotion 

And  stilled  its  every  petty  motion ; 

Each  little  leaf  was  bended  down 

Before  high  Heaven 's  throned  frown ; 

It  wept  in  drops  as  if  in  pain, 

The  tears  were  furnished  by  the  rain. 

A  man  beneath  the  willow  stood, 


THE   STRANGER.  15 

A  stranger  in  the  neighborhood, 

But  somehow  of  that  prayerful  tree, 

The  human  counterpart  he  seemed  to  be, 

Brothered  in  universal  sympathy ; 

Out  of  a  mild  benignant  face 

He  threw  a  gleam  of  God's  own  grace. 

His  old  straw  hat  was  badly  shattered 

His  coat  was  round  his  body  scattered, 

And  pantaloons  in  places  tattered, 

While  out  his  windowed  shoes 

Would  peep  two  lines  of  toes. 

He  held  in  hand  a  sack  of  seeds, 

Which  he  would  plant  as  his  good  deeds, 

That  others  could  enjoy  the  fruit 

When  he,  the  giver,  might  be  mute. 

No  recompense  he  gained  for  good, 

Little  he  recked  of  gratitude, 

Planting  a  seed  alone  he  stood. 

He  asked  no  man  for  aid, 

On  Heaven  and  himself  was  stayed. 

Lincoln  came  up  to  him  and  thought : 
' '  Somewhere  that  favor  I  have  caught ; 
But  I  can't  tell  exactly  how, 
That  character  I've  known  ere  now;" 
But  he  could  not  the  when  or  where  awake 
From  sleeping  memory,  and  so  he  spake ; 
"What  are  you  doing  here,  good  friend? 
A  helping  hand  I'll  gladly  lend." 
' '  This  by-way  nook  I  seek  to  plant 


16    CANTO    I— CAPTAIN    ABRAHAM    LINCOLN. 

That  it  may  serve  some  human  want." 
* '  But  say  for  whom  such  toil  out  here 
Upon  this  wild  frontier?" 
' '  I  never  can  turn  back 
Till  I  get  round; 
The  world  wheels  in  my  track 
Upon  this  very  ground; 
Here  you  with  me  now  stand  in  line, 
You  need  not  seek  a  better  sign. ' ' 
Young  Lincoln  wondered  at  the  mystic  speech 
Yet  felt  a  meaning  in  it  out  of  reach, 
As  if  it  came  some  whence  above  him 
Voiced  by  a  presence  that  did  love  him. 
And  so  he  pressed  the  point  anew: 
"What  purpose  have  you  here  in  view — 
What  purpose  good  as  you?" 
The  stranger  straightened  up  to  his  full  stat- 
ure, 

And  seemed  to  concentrate  all  human  nature 
Into  an  outlook  of  the  all-seeing  soul 
Which  views  untimed  the  aeons  forward  roll ; 
It  was  as  if  beneath  that  willow  portal 
A  God  came  down  and  spoke  unto  a  mortal : 

"I  plant  for  all  the  races 

To  dwell  hereafter  in  these  places ; 

I  plant  for  black,  for  white — for  you — 

For  red,  perchance  for  yellow  too. 

I  am  not  limited  by  space, 

I. make  no  difference  of  race, 


THE    STRANGER.  17 

In  every  moment  of  my  life 

I  solve  the  universe's  strife, 

And  though  I  live  in  this  small  speck  of  years, 

All  time  to  me  in  it  appears. 

And  now  I  hand  thee  here  a  little  book, 

Upon  the  march  thou  oft  in  it  can'st  look, 

It  will  thee  to  thy  higher  self  recall 

When  there  is  danger  of  a  fall. 

Let  man  be  minded  of  the  fact 

His  life  must  Adam's  re-enact. 

In  this  breast  pocket  of  thy  blouse, 

Next  to  thy  heart  let  it  be  laid, 

To  help  thee  keep  thy  holiest  vows, 

Fulfilled  they  should  be,  e  'en  if  not  prayed ; 

This  book  of  only  forty  pages, 

Entitled  the  New  Testament, 

Is  now  to  thee  from  Heaven  sent, 

The  library  of  all  the  Sages, 

The  key-stone  of  God's  firmament, 

The  overtone  of  coming  ages — 

This  now  it  is  thy  task  to  hear 

In  this  campaign  of  just  this  year." 

Staid  Lincoln  listened  there  amazed, 
At  first  he  thought  the  fellow  crazed, 
Perchance  a  social  vagabond, 
Who  seeks  somehow  to  get  beyond 
The  civil  order  he  feels  cramping, 
And  so  he  turns  his  life  to  tramping ; 
A  citizen  of  everywhere, 


18    CANTO    I.— CAPTAIN    ABRAHAM    LINCOLN. 

Who  of  the  All-in- All  plays  heir, 

A  wandering  cosmopolite 

Who  suns  himself  in  his  own  light. 

But  when  the  youth  got  to  divine 

The  sudden  whirl  of  that  last  line, 

Which  whizzed  itself  into  his  heart, 

He  felt  the  barb  of  a  prophetic  dart 

Him  soothing  in  its  very  smart. 

He  scanned  anew  the  stranger's  face, 

Bespake  him  in  a  kindly  tone : 

"I've  seen  you  in  some  other  place 

Which  will  not  let  itself  be  known. ' ' 

The  man  wheeled  on  his  heel  to  go, 

And  dryly  said:  """I  guess  that's  so." 

But  then  as  if  he  caught  a  sudden  gleam 

His  countenance  rayed  out  its  sunniest  beam 

As  he  to  Lincoln  voiced  a  whispered  dream : 

"Me  thou  shalt  see  another  day 

More  now  to  thee  I  cannot  say. ' ' 

At  once  the  stranger  swiftly  sped 

And  vanished  in  the  silvery  billows 

Along  a  shore  of  waving  willows, 

He  trod  an  airy  winged  tread, 

His  footsteps  tipped  the  ground  in  their  sure 

speed, 

He  hardly  seemed  the  solid  earth  to  need, 
Bearing  along  his  bag  of  seed. 


MUSTER   AT  HIGHLAND.  ]£ 

III. 

When  out  of  sight  had  fled  that  form, 

And  far  away  had  rolled  the  storm, 

This  younger  newer  Abraham 

Had  soothed  the  lion  and  the  lamb, 

Which  crouching  lay  within  his  breast, 

For  each  of  them  had  there  its  nest, 

Though  both  just  now  be  medicined  to  rest. 

In  mind  he  bore  a  lighter  load, 

Trudging  along  the  muddy  road, 

To  Bichland  where  the  warriors  planned 

To  choose  the  captain  of  their  band ; 

The  election  was  at  hand. 

Some  others  met  him  on  the  way, 

And  soon  they  had  his  brain  at  play 

With  story,  fable,  anecdote 

Which  tickled  laughter  in  each  throat, 

And  tuned  the  time  to  merry  note; 

Then  more  yet  joined  at  the  cross-road, 

A  little  human  river  flowed 

Toward  Bichland,  when  a  voice  cried  out 

Raised  vehemently  to  a  shout : 

' '  Abe  Lincoln,  you  the  captain  be 

Of  this  our  prairie  company." 

When  thunderous  vociferation 

Had  noised  the  people's  approbation, 

That  same  stout  voice  cried  Halt  to  the  whole 

group, 
Then  spoke  to  Lincoln  there  before  the  troop : 


20    CANTO    I.— CAPTAIN    ABRAHAM   LINCOLN. 

"You  have  a  roaring  rival  in  the  field, 

Your  tonguey  turns  Kirkpatrick  cannot  wield ; 

Although  he  runs  a  water  mill, 

Your  clapper  is  a  better  still ; 

He  owns  indeed  a  well-tilled  farm, 

But  yours  is  much  the  brawnier  arm. 

He  has,  they  say,  a  slave,  a  nigger, 

But  that  out  here  makes  him  no  bigger, 

An  old  cocked  hat  and  regimentals 

He  dons  with  other  incidentals, 

When  he  comes  out  to  yearly  muster 

To  air  aristocratic  bluster. 

And  then  he  is  a  man  unlean 

He  is  too  fat  is  what  I  mean. 

You,  Abraham,  are  just  the  man 

Lank  and  long-legged  as  a  pelican, 

Can  wade  the  swamps  of  Blini 

Or  rise  and  o'er  the  tree-tops  fly, 

Soaring  above  the  Sangamon 

And  prairies  flat  we  stand  upon. 

I  dare  him  clinch  you  in  a  tussle 

Despite  his  bluster  and  his  bustle; 

In  making  an  off-hand  stump-speech 

Him  can  you  many  a  lesson  teach, 

Your  tongue  and  arms  are  longer,  each  to 

each, 

Than  his  two,  stretch  them  as  he  may, 
Both  yours  and  his  must  measured  be  to-day ; 
His  arm  and  tongue  with  yours  must  gallop 
Like  racing  horses  twain 


MUSTER   AT  RICHLAND.  21 

To  see  which  can  the  other  wallop 

And  as  best  man  the  prize  obtain. 

When  both  of  you  come  to  the  twist, 

He  dares  not  butt  against  Abe  Lincoln's  fist, 

And  given  all  his  power  and  glory, 

He  cannot  with  you  swop  a  story." 

The  people  seems  to  speak  in  that  one  voice 

When  it  gets  down  to  talking  to  the  boys ; 

Uproared  in  mass  that  leveled  crowd 

To  rival  upper  thunder  of  the  cloud. 

Lincoln's  first  thought  was  to  decline, 

He  could  not  put  his  men  in  line ; 

Little  he  knew  of  military  drill, 

His  knowledge  of  the  foe  was  smaller  still. 

But  he  bethought  himself  anew : 

There  rose  two  sparkling  eyes  upon  his  view, 

Flashing  ambition  in  his  heart, 

Along  with  echoes  of  a  subtler  art 

Which  softly  throbbed  a  dulcet  smart, 

Whose  twinge  he  deftly  kept  concealed 

Though  it  to  him  his  holier  self  revealed. 

But  out  the  game  he  could  not  stay, 
He  soon  came  back  from  far  away, 
Hearing  again  a  clang  of  tongue 
Which  from  the  prairie  flat  was  sung. 
Another  man  spoke  up  his  pleasure 
Whose  name  we  shall  leave  out  this  measure; 
His  voice  was  cracked  in  sundry  streaks  of 
spite, 


22    CANTO    I— CAPTAIN    ABRAHAM    LINCOLN. 

While  setting  up  his  democratic  right : 

' '  Kirkpatrick  holds  his  head  too  high, 

We'll  prairie  him  out  of  his  sky, 

And  bring  him  down  to  our  country's  level, 

He  means  to  us  the  very  Devil 

He  piques  himself  upon  his  ancestry, 

And  cannot  say  enough  of  quality. 

You  are  the  better  man  in  muscle, 

First  challenge  him  to  try  a  tussle ; 

The  brain  you  have  to  boot,  I  know, 

That  never  have  you  failed  to  show, 

For  you  can  write  the  fairest  hand 

Of  any  body  in  this  border  land, 

Can  tell  a  yarn  or  make  a  speech, 

Can  any  common  man  outreach 

With  your  long  arms  and  longer  head; 

The  leader  ought  not  to  be  led 

By  aristocracy  of  blood ; 

That  bodes  our  country  little  good; 

You  must  the  champion  chosen  be, 

Abe,  dare  the  captaincy." 

But  to  the  village  they  have  come, 
Stepping  the  beat  of  the  big  bass-drum 
And  the  rack-a-tack  of  the  little  tambour, 
Two  dozen  borderers  or  more. 
Already  others  had  gathered  there, 
And  some  were  still  arriving; 
Eumors  of  war  buzzed  in  the  air 
Like  busy  swarms  of  bees  a-hiving, 


MUSTER   AT   RICHLAND.  23 

They  slaughtered  the  redskin  with  many  a 

damn, 
Which  blazed  in  speech  aflame  with  liquor's 

dram; 

Always  the  word  became  more  bloody 
Shot  through  and   through   with   charge  of 

toddy ; 

At  last  the  squads  of  men  repair 
Toward  a  grassy  public  square, 
With  whoops  which  would  the  Indians  scare, 
Had  they  been  only  there. 
Some  wore  their  buckskin  pantaloons, 
With  caps  made  of  the  skins  of  coons 
Others  were  dressed  in  butternut 
That  always  showed  a  home-grown  cut, 
Blue  jeans  was  in  great  favor,  too, 
And  lent  to  yellow  its  skiey  hue; 
To  mud  was  trod  the  loamy  street 
In  chorus  kneaded  by  many  feet ; 
April  still  tried  the  clouds  to  drain, 
Spirting  adown  her  rivulets  of  rain, 
And  from  celestial  sprinkling-pots, 
Kept  watering  her  earthly  garden  spots. 

The  men  had  yelled  the  final  cheer, 

When  every  mouth  was  oped  and  every  ear, 

And  all  began  to  electioneer. 

The  war  of  offices,  now  uppermost, 

Must  first  be  fought  out  by  that  host; 

Of  tongues  there  were  at  least  three  score 


24    CANTO    I.— CAPTAIN    ABRAHAM    LINCOLN. 

Which  started  up  a  pattering  roar, 

Like  musketry  in  battle 

That  never  stops  its  rattle ; 

The  big  guns  too  were  getting  loaded, 

But  had  not  yet  their  charge  exploded. 

The  rival  strutted  through  the  throng, 

To  it  he  seemed  not  to  belong ; 

He  was  the  only  man  who  wore  store-clothes, 

And  rode  a  blooded  horse  in  pompous  pose, 

Against  the  drizzling  shower  he  spread 

A  silk  umbrella  o'er  his  head, 

A  thing  unknown  to  all  that  crowd 

Who  at  such  weapon  jeered  aloud; 

His  twisting  corkscrew  of  a  nose, 

Go  where  he  might,  would  make  him  foes, 

And  oft  he  twitched  his  countenance, 

As  if  he  tasted  wormwood  in  each  glance 

He  threw  upon  the  multitude 

Who  everywhere  about  him  stood. 

But  when  the  sun  strode  out  his  cover 

In  golden  panoply  of  lover, 

And  laughed  down  on  the  earth  his  beams, 

Then  all  the  folk  in  his  inviting  gleams 

Together  roll  with  mighty  crush, 

And  to  a  pile  of  logs  they  rush, 

And  it  their  prized  center  make, 

As  if  just  that  were  all  the  stake. 

"A  speech!  a  speech!"  the  cry  first  heard— 

The  leader  must  be  master  of  the  word; 


MUSTER    AT   RICHLAND.  £5 

"From  Lincoln's  Abe  a  speech,  a  speech!" 

The  roar  resounded  round  the  welkin's  reach. 

His  stalwart  form  o'ertopped  the  rest, 

Of  them  he  was,  yet  was  the  best ; 

He  mounted  there  upon  a  log, 

Before  him  stood  the  crowd  agog; 

*  *  Here,  hold  my  old  straw  hat, ' '  he  said 

1 '  No,  keep  it  on  your  brush-heap  head 

To  shade  your  phiz  and  roof  your  poll, 

Now  let  from  under  it  the  stories  roll ; 

We  want  no  stunning  style  from  you, 

Kail-splitter  of  the  Sangamon, 

Maul  on  the  wedge  till  it  rive  through 

And  one  good  job  of  jaw  get  done." 

So  spoke  the  people's  voice  reduced  to  one; 

Meanwhile  the  speech  of  Lincoln  had  begun : 

"My  country's  call  to-day  I  hear. 

And  so  I  come  a  volunteer 

Against  the  murderous  savages, 

Who  have  renewed  their  ravages ; 

When  we  but  think  of  all  their  brutal  broils, 

The  blood  of  us  frontiersmen  boils. 

The  battle  has  come  down  to  sons  from  sires, 

In  us  still  glow  the  old  ancestral  fires 

Enkindled  long  ago  to  flaming  strife 

Between  the  white  and  red  for  death  and  life ; 

From  generation  to  generation 

We  stand  the  vanguard  of  the  nation. 

But  when  the  war  is  done,  come  back 


26    CANTO    I.— CAPTAIN    ABRAHAM    LINCOLN. 

I  shall  and  tread  the  same  old  track; 
You  know  I  am  a  candidate 
To  make  the  law  for  this  whole  State ; 
My  creed  I  shall  at  once  make  known, 
It  is  to  improve  the  Sangamon, 

Which  to  the  Illinois  will  stream 

t 

Bearing  us  on  as  in  a  dream. 

Into  the  Mississippi  float 

Behold  our  Sangamonian  boat ; 

Then  to  the  Gulf  and  to  the  Ocean, 

Of  all  the  world  we'll  share  the  motion, 

The  universe,  I  have  to  think 

Needs  us  to  get  along — or  else  'twill  sink." 

Whereat  the  applause  did  seem  to  tear 

To  very  shreds  the  domed  air 

Which  overarched  the  shouters  there ; 

Each  flintlock  old  was  held  on  high 

And  shot  in  chorus  up  the  sky, 

Making  a  noisy  celebration 

Since  just  next  door  stood  all  creation; 

Such  was  the  backwoods  aspiration 

Stirred  by  Abe  Lincoln's  speech  upon 

The  navigable  Sangamon. 

The  people's  voice  again  spoke  single, 

The  many  tongues  turned  one  in  tune  and 

time 

And  lilted  in  a  kind  of  common  jingle, 
Which  somehow  fits  into  this  rhyme : 
"The  tallest  cornstalk,  Lincoln,  is  just  you, 


MUSTER    AT   RICHLAND.  £7 

With  biggest  ear  of  corn 

From  prairie  ever  born, 

With  all  the  silken  tassels  streaming  too, 

You  never  fail  to  tick  the  tickle  spot, 

You  read  us  off  down  to  the  dot ; 

Give  us  another  sample  of  that  lot." 

But  now  the  rival  has  his  turn, 

Haughty  he  peers  about  and  stern, 

For  he  the  trend  may  well  discern. 

With  his  fat  jowl  high  up  he  treads, 

And  from  his  perch  looks  o'er  their  heads, 

Then  he  begins  to  talk 

At  that  big-eared  unhusked  cornstalk: 

"I  know  this  Lincoln  and  his  clan, 

Awhile  he  was  my  hired  man, 

In  yarning  he  would  spin  his  time, 

Would  crack  a  joke  and  make  a  rhyme, 

He  liked  his  work  less  than  his  play, 

I  sent  him  off,  he  could  not  stay 

Upon  my  place  another  day 

When  I  him  once  had  tried. 

He  has  no  horse,  for  none  can  pay, 

And  if  he  had  he  cannot  ride 

As  it  becomes  a  captain  in  the  line, 

He  has  no  sword,  but  here  is  mine, 

Worn  by  my  father  at  Tippecanoe, 

Where  it  he  boldly  drew 

Against  this  same  Black  Hawk, 


28    CANTO    I. — CAPTAIN    ABRAHAM    LINCOLN. 

Of  whom  so  much  is  now  the  talk. 

Its  flash  beheld  Tecumseh  too, 

When  up  in  Canada  he  met  his  fate. 

And  though  I  am  no  candidate, 

I  still  have  something  in  my  pate ; 

I  give  my  time  to  the  public  will, 

Though  busy  with  my  farm  and  mill ; 

Lincoln  is  out  of  a  job,  I  hear, 

And  so  he  comes  a  volunteer ; 

To  country  he  will  now  be  true, 

And  fight  and  bleed  and  die  for  her  with  you, 

As  he  has  nothing  else  to  do." 

Then  Jack  of  Clary's  Grove  spoke  out 
Once  thrown  by  Lincoln  in  a  bout, 
But  now  Abe's  over-zealous  friend 
Who  would  at  once  the  contest  end : 
"Now  for  a  wrestling  match  to  test 
Of  all  these  men  who  is  the  best ; 
Only  the  best  man  here  can  be 
The  captain  of  this  company. 
Lincoln,  Kirkpatrick  on  this  ground 
Show  us  your  bodies  wriggling  round, 
And  if  it  can't  be  settled  with  a  twist, 
Why,  then  decide  it  with  the  fist. ' ' 

The  rival  sullenly  drew  off, 
Muttering  his  mood  in  sulky  scoff: 
The    tall    rail-splitter    may    strain    more 
strength, 


1. 1 


MUSTER   AT   HIGHLAND.  29 

The   thin  wood-chopper   may   stretch  more 

length, 

That  does  not  give  him  skill 
This  company  to  drill ; 
And  though  he  tell  a  funny  story, 
That  leads  us  not  to  battle's  glory." 
And  Lincoln  too  slid  off  aside, 
Such  contest  would  he  not  abide, 
But   the   crowd   shouted:   "the   match!   the 

match ! 

Step  up  ye  twisters  to  the  scratch." 
Then  Lincoln  to  divert  them  sought, 
Therewith  a  lesson  also  taught ; 
He  showed  that  he  at  once  was  able 
To  turn  to  use  a  little  fable : 

"All  animals,"  quoth  he,   "were  once  like 

men, 

They  came  and  talked  together  then 
As  we  do  now  upon  this  green, 
Speakers  they  had  too,  fat  and  lean. 
The  frogs  got  somehow  in  a  muddle, 
They  could  not  stand  it  in  their  puddle, 
For  each  and  all  would  croak  together, 
Their  gabbing  tongues  must  have  a  tether. 
So  they  resolved  to  choose  a  king 
To  rule  that  most  unruly  thing : 
The  sonorous  bellow  of  the  big  bull  frog 
When  in  the  swamp  he  mounts  a  log ; 
Who  shall  be  king?   Who  shall  be  king? 


30    CANTO    I.— CAPTAIN    ABRAHAM    LINCOLN. 

Did  through  all  leaping  frog-town  ring ; 
One  of  ourselves  or  some  other  beast 
Who  can  us  swallow  at  his  feast? 
The  news  that  last  came  to  my  hearing 
They  all  were  still  electioneering." 

The  crowd  felt  just  a  little  rub, 
The  story  had  a  sly-shot  nub 
Which  struck  them  with  its  stub. 
Whereat  a  busy  buzz  uprose 
From  out  that  swarm  of  friends  and  foes 
Until  one  mouth  seemed  these  and  those : 
"Abe,  you  are  of  all  the  big  bull-frog, 
Hop  up  again  upon  that  log, 
And  yawp  another  yarn  like  that, 
You  have  a  hundred  of  them  pat." 
"No  more,"  said  he,  "but  to  the  choice 
We  must  now  pass  at  once,  my  boys ; 
Black  Hawk  is  burning,  stealing,  slaying, 
While  here  we  stand  debating  and  delaying, 
To  choose  the  leader  let  us  now  proceed, 
The  time  roars  like  a  tempest  for  the  deed, 
Hump  down  to  work  and  quit  this  babble, 
When  we  have  done,  again  we'll  gabble." 

But  suddenly  he  stopped  in  doubt, 
A  turn  of  thought  wheeled  him  about, 
He  felt  he  had  left  something  out; 
Cloudy  he  lifted  up  his  look, 
His  knotted  hand  he  raised  and  shook, 


MUSTER   AT   HIGHLAND.  3 

And  then  another  turn  he  took. 

He  thought  of  the  portentous  hap 

Which  loomed  just  then  on  Southern  map, 

In  which  to  him  lurked  the  dread  fates 

Of  these  entire  United  States. 

For  Lincoln  felt  the  people  whole 

With  a  sort  of  universal  soul, 

Already  he  was  national 

And  in  himself  he  saw  the  country  all; 

'  *  Just  one  more  thing  I  have  to  tell, ' ' 

Says  he,  "which  makes  for  Heaven  or  Hell. 

Two  men  will  leaders  be 

Of  this  our  little  company — 

In  which  a  speck  I  seem  to  see 

Of  one  great  contest  yet  to  be. 

Let  both  of  us  without  defection, 

Pledge  now  to  stand  by  the  election, 

Kirkpatrick  here  as  well  as  me, 

Whoever  may  be  chosen,  I  or  he, 

I  swear  to  obey  the  majority; 

I  shall  not  have  to  be  co-erced, 

Let  happen  what  for  me  is  worst. 

Kirkpatrick,  will  you  take  this  oath, 

Whose  sacredness  should  bind  us  both? 

I  shall  enlist  with  you 

If  beaten  I  shall  be ; 

Will  you  enlist  with  me 

If  you  do  not  pull  through1? 

Or  will  you  try 

To  nullify  ?"  * 


32    CANTO    I.— CAPTAIN    ABRAHAM    LINCOLN. 

A  sudden  silence  hushed  the  multitude, 

All  faces  turned  to  where  the  rival  stood 

Intently  gazing  on  the  air, 

Until  the  shout  resounded, ' '  Swear ' '. 

The  man  seemed  wrestling  in  a  transforma- 
tion 

Which  was  akin  to  God 's  salvation, 

Just  then  he  must  decide  his  own  self-strife, 

And  turn  around  a  corner  in  his  life. 

He  had  to  go  to  worse  or  better, 

Eivet  or  rive  his  ancient  fetter; 

A  light  through  all  his  being  ran, 

Lincoln's  test  was  making  him  a  man. 

The  crowd  stood  silent  all  the  while 

Waiting  but  could  not  even  smile, 

At  last  the  people's  voice  roared  upward 
there 

Eepeating  louder:   " Kirkpatrick,  swear." 

He  reared  his  head  again,  but  not  in  pride, 

A  man  regenerate  he  was  inside 

Through  Lincoln's  priestly  mediation, 

But  mighty  rolled  his  perspiration. 

At  once  he  flashed  his  eyes  of  glede : 

* l  No,  no,  I  never  shall  secede. 

Though  I  be  beaten  at  the  poll 

As  private  I  shall  still  enroll — 

Put  down  my  name  upon  that  scroll." 

So  spake  he  now,  a  new-born  soul, 

To  Lincoln,  who  the  scribe  was  then, 


MUSTER   AT   HIGHLAND.  33 

Best  wielder  of  the  people's  pen, 

Who  wrote  the  name  that  bright  it  shone 

In  neatest  script  beside  his  own. 

Spake  Lincoln  up  with  face  delighted, 

Though  hitherto  it  was  benighted 

With  a  sombre  melancholy  line, 

Through  which  his  humor  now  could  shine : 

' '  The  best  is  this !  United  we  shall  go, 

United  stand  against  whatever  foe. 

A  dim  presentiment  I  could  not  hide, 

Lest  my  election  should  perchance  divide 

Our  band  atwain  in  bitter  hate, 

So  that  my  office  might  create 

A  little  civil  war  within  our  little  state. 

Already  of  secession  I  have  heard, 

My  soul  grows  murky  at  the  word, 

But  my  foreboding  fantasy  pass  by — 

The  ballot  now  we  have  to  try : 

All  ye  who  vote  me  captain,  toe  this  line 

Beside  me — you  will  then  be  counted  mine. '  * 

When  out  his  mouth  had  sped  these  words, 

Beside  him  sprang  at  once  two-thirds 

And  more,  of  the  whole  sixty-eight, 

Whereat  he  still  forefelt  his  fate 

As  if  the  small  might  yet  be  great. 

A  moment  there  he  gazed  afar 

As  if  he  saw  another  war, 

A  distant  time  he  seemed  all  rapt  in 

When  he  again  was  chosen  Captain. 


34    CANTO    I.— CAPTAIN    ABRAHAM    LINCOLN. 

IV. 

About  a  pivot's  turn  was  Lincoln  whirled, 

The  rounding  of  his  new  career 

Dizzied  the  youthful  volunteer, 

To  one  fantastic  moment  shrank  the  world, 

Until  he  somehow  squared  his  head 

And  out  the  whiz  himself  he  led. 

Suddenly  he  woke  up  to  the  act, 

And  grappled  with  the  present  fact : 

"Attention,  company,  shoulder  arms" — 

The  flintlocks  gathered  from  the  farms 

Battled  together  at  their  best, 

The  powder-horn  slung  round  the  breast, 

And  pouch  with  bullet-moulds  and  knife, 

The  implements  of  death  and  life, 

All  which  from  childhood  they  had  handled, 

About  their  bodies  gaily  dandled; 

Some  proudly  bore  a  blanket  too, 

A  bedquilt  some,  of  speckled  hue, 

Pieced  by  their  mothers  when  it  was  new, 

But  most  kept  all  such  gewgaws  out  of  view. 

Then  Captain  Lincoln  gave  command 

When  he  in  front  had  taken  stand, 

He  towered  over  all  the  rest, 

His  features  said  he  meant  no  jest : 

' '  Forward  march !  now  follow  me, 

The  foremost  I  must  always  be 

As  Captain  of  this  company — 

The  first  man  to  be  shot  or  shoot, 

Whether  mounted  or  on  foot. 


MARCH    TO    NEW   SALEM.  35 

But  to  New  Salem  next  we  go, 

Some  gear  it  has  for  me  I  know ; 

There  we  can  borrow  Mentor  Graham's  flag, 

As  sash  I'll  find  some  old  red  rag, 

And  I  must  get  some  neighbor's  nag, 

I  own  myself  a  fuzzy  saddle-bag. 

Perchance  I  may  pick  up  a  sword" — 

Somehow  he  falters  at  the  coming  word, 

A  sudden  image  in  his  bosom  bobs, 

And  makes  it  thrill  unworded  throbs, 

So  that  he  speechless  moves  along, 

Self-occupied  with  inner  throng. 

But  the  chief  reason  is  kept  down 

Why  Lincoln  marches  to  New  Salem  town. 

Still  on  they  pushed,  and  Lincoln  led 
The  swaying  line  by  his  high  head 
Through  which  was  surging  many  a  thought, 
Of  what  that  one  brief  day  had  brought. 
The  wheeling  point  of  years  it  seemed, 
The  living  of  an  entire  life  foregleamed, 
The  present  deed  of  all  the  future  dreamed 
In  fleeting  magical  reflection, 
Which  would  not  wait  for  close  inspection. 
His  outspread  years  in  one  diurnal  dot 
Seemed  crushed  together  on  a  little  spot, 
These  people  took  him  as  their  choice, 
That  came  to  him  a  far-off  voice, 
He  had  no  skill  in  this  vocation, 


36    CANTO    I— CAPTAIN    ABRAHAM    LINCOLN. 

And  still  they  chose  him  for  their  highest  sta- 
tion. 

Nor  could  he  well  forget  that  face  benign 
Which  did  his  soul  with  grace  beshine, 
And  left  him  with  a  promise  still 
Which  he  has  ever  to  fulfill. 
A  passion  too  in  bosom  deeply  hidden, 
Would  upward  well  to  memory  unbidden. 
By  many  feelings  he  was  goaded, 
His  inner  world  was  overloaded, 
Still  now  and  then,  to  get  relief, 
He  would  relate  a  story  brief. 

Marching  along  thus  occupied 

He  let  some  minutes  swiftly  slide, 

When  suddenly  with  waked-up  look 

He  sharply  eyed  around,  and  took 

A  searching  glance  at  all,  as  if  he  tried 

To  find  a  missing  man 

Most  needful  to  his  plan ; 

But  soon  his  mien  gleamed  satisfied: 

'Twas  when  he  came  to  scan 

Kirkpatrick  walking  in  the  ranks 

And  sharing  in  the  soldiers'  pranks, 

Tramping  in  mud  just  like  them  all, 

Without  his  silken  parasol, 

Taking  the  rain  and  sun  atwain,  together — 

Whatever  be  the  weather, 

Dropping  his  aristocracy's  pretension, 

Yet  with  a  lordly  condescension. 


MARCH    TO    NEW    SALEM.  37 

Then  Lincoln  could  not  help  but  utter 

Quite  to  himself  though  in  a  mutter: 

*  *  True  man  he  is  beneath  that  fatted  skin, 

An  office  he  shall  have  as  his  just  prize, 

If  I  can  only  get  him  in 

When  the  whole  regiment  doth  organize. 

I  did  not  like  his  dewlap  chin 

Puffed  in  contempt  and  pride ; 

But  now  I  see  his  other  side — 

I  could  not  feel  his  loyal  spirit 

In  such  thick  layers  doubly  rolled, 

Nor  soul  in  such  a  deep  outside  insouled ; 

Justice  I  must  now  give  his  merit, 

His  character  is  gold." 

In  native  contemplation  caught 
Lincoln  still  carried  on  his  nearest  thought : 
"Methinks  secession  shows  no  sign 
Within  this  little  band  of  mine, 
And  yet  the  dread  of  it  me  haunted, 
As  damned  ghost  far  down  implanted 
In  the  first  fountain  of  my  being — 
That  ghost  I  cannot  shun  the  seeing. 
And  here  appears  no  nullification, 
Which  holds  a  bonfire  celebration 
Just  now  down  yonder  in  Caroline, 
With  Andy  Jackson  getting  into  line : 
He  will  not  fail  to  give  the  countersign. 
An  earnest  of  myself  he  seems 
A  sun  beshining  me  with  far-off  gleams—- 
But I  must  halt  these  daytime  dreams." 


38    CANTO    I.— CAPTAIN    ABRAHAM    LINCOLN. 

Young  Abraham  looked  up  and  sighted 

New  Salem  town;  he  stepped  delighted, 

That  image  fleeted  round  again 

Despite  the  pleasure  and  the  pain, 

The  knowledge  and  the  ignorance, 

Weaving  the  web  of  circumstance 

With  all  the  ups  and  downs  of  chance. 

Through  sticky  mud  with  many  a  puff 

The  soldiers  reach  the  rising  bluff, 

On  which  the  houses  sleep  in  silent  sheen 

While  citizens  pour  out  upon  the  green, 

Which  overlooks  a  little  stream, 

Ambitious  Sangamon  in  sunlit  dream; 

Now  flaunting  wide  its  yellow  flood 

It  challenges  the  solar  golden  gleam, 

And  channels  field  and  wood 

Filled  full  of  April  rain, 

Which  one  year  hence  may  come  again. 

It  seems  to  say  to  Lincoln  and  all  there : 

"See  I  can  a  steamboat  bear 

If  you  will  only  clear  my  track ; 

Here  launch  it  on  my  back." 

Lincoln  heard  the  voice  but  cannot  stay, 

Yet  took  the  time  within  to  pray : 

* '  Fair  nymph,  thee  I  shall  heed  another  day, 

When  the  present  task  is  done 

And  the  Captain's  laurel  won; 

So  then,  sweet  water-sprite,  don't  cry, 

Though  now  I  have  to  say  good-bye." 

Whereat  he  turned  and  up  the  hill 


MARCH    TO    NEW    SALEM.  39 

He  trod  in  tune  to  his  bosom's  thrill, 
Which  seemed  to  lift  him  on  soft  pillows 
And  skyward  float  him  in  its  billows. 
Spry  Lincoln,  as  he  lightly  climbed  above, 
Rose  winged  with  the  thought  of  love ; 
And  though  he  kept  it  nestled  in  his  breast, 
The  honeyed  sting  gave  him  no  rest, 
And  was  by  many  a  fantasy  caressed ; 
The  image  lisped  to  him  unbidden, 
But  his  reply  was  always  hidden. 

Then  from  his  revery  sublime 
He  was  jerked  down  to  earth  and  time, 
For  now  the  notes  of  fifer  and  of  drummer 
Make  shrill  salute  to  the  new-comer ; 
A  batch  of  the  most  piercing  tunes 
Are  fiercely  fifed  by  old  Tom  Cunes, 
The  tiptop  fifer  of  the  county, 
Who  never  spared  his  music's  bounty, 
On  all  he  spent  his  shrilly  overflow 
Which  failed  not  to  the  bone  to  go. 
A  hurricane  he  could  outblow 
And  make  its  blasts  much  smaller  feel, 
Puckering  his  breath  into  a  squeal, 
As  he  the  measures  off  would  reel, 
Boomed  by  the  big  drum  's  monotone 
Which  tuned  the  tempo  to  its  drone 
And  smote  the  snarling  snare-drum's  under- 
tone. 
So  now  with  bodies  bobbing  up  and  down, 


40    CANTO    I— CAPTAIN    ABRAHAM    LINCOLN. 

With  Lincoln  in  his  loftiest  lead, 

Gleaming  as  if  he  wore  their  jeweled  crown 

For  doing  the  heroic  deed, 

The  soldier  boys  mount  to  New  Salem  town. 


Canto  &econb. 


THE  CONFLICT  OF  RACES. 
I. 

Far  up  the  Mississippi's  flood 

A  solitary  Indian  stood; 

The  river  and  the  rivulet 

In  many  murmurous  gushes  met, 

And  babbled  round  the  long-necked  strand 

Where  Black  Hawk 's  boat  had  drawn  to  land 

In  silent  moonless  night 

Which  shut  the  sheen  from  human  sight. 

To  him  the  spot  of  old  was  known, 

And  from  the  heart's  far-down  abysm, 

Despite  his  Indian  stoicism 

He  heaved  a  heavy-laden  moan; 

"Upon  the  graves  of  those  most  dear, 
I,  the  lone  Bedskin,  drop  a  tear; 

(41) 


42    CANTO  II— THE  CONFLICT  OF  RACES. 

Many  a  mile  I've  sneaked  my  way, 

By  night,  and  hid  myself  by  day, 

Till  I  have  reached  the  holy  grounds, 

Where  lie  within  their  little  mounds 

My  fathers  taking  their  last  sleep, 

Unwept  by  those  who  ought  to  weep. 

I  scarce  know  where  to  go  or  stop, 

The  land  is  covered  with  the  white  man's 

crop; 

My  people's  ancient  burial-place 
Is  taken  by  another  race — 
That  cunning,  cruel,  whited  face — 
Who  tills  the  sacred  ashes  of  my  mother, 
And  sells  the  risen  body  of  my  brother, 
Who,  like  cannibal,  can  eat 
The  red  man's  flesh  grown  up  in  wheat, 
And  builds   his   church,   to   the   foundation 

stones, 

Out  of  our  very  skulls  and  bones. 
Ye  whites — ye  are  the  savage  race. 
Perish  ye  shall  without  a  trace ; 
What  you  to  me  and  mine  have  sought  to  do 

I  shall  pay  back  to  you. ' ' 

>> 

So  seethed  Black  Hawk  as  once  he  stood, 
And  voiced  the  rush  of  vengeful  blood 
At  the  sad  sight  of  his  old  village 
Begrown  and  green  with  a  new  tillage, 
Which  the  fresh  emigrant  had  taught 
The  earth  to  yield  when  rightly  wrought. 


THE  GATHERING  OF  RACES.  43 

Two  rivers  formed  a  tongue  of  land, 

The  mighty  Mississippi  and 

The  lesser  purling  stream  called  Rock 

In  honor  of  its  stony  stock ; 

He  from  the  far-off  Iowa 

Had  hither  crept  his  forest  way; 

To  Prophetstown  his  path  did  bend 

Where  the  red  Prophet  dwelt, 

Who  had  in  ecstacy  forefelt 

A  plan  the  white  man 's  power  to  end, 

And  back  the  tide  of  settlers  send. 

Black  Hawk  ere  leaving,  cast  a  look 

Upon  the  old  ancestral  nook: 

"Ye  dead,  I  shall  come  back  and  stay; 

I  hear  your  spirits  to  me  pray, 

Ah,  well  I  understand 

Your  heavenly  command, 

And  must  obey — 

I  shall  come  back  this  very  year, 

And  when  I  die  upon  a  day 

Be  buried  with  my  people  here." 

Sadly  the  Indian  turned  up  stream, 
Fleeting  in  night  as  if  a  dream 
Through  woody  dell  along  the  River 
Which  gave  him  drink  fresh  from  the  Giver, 
Which  whispered  to  him  as  of  old, 
The  same  sweet  fairy-story  told 
As  it  pellucid  o  *er  the  pebbles  rolled. 
Betimes  a  waterfall  with  white  swan-wings 


44    CANTO  II— THE  CONFLICT  OF  RACES. 

A  shredded  song  of  the  Great  Spirit  sings ; 
Outspreading  on  the  tops  of  trees 
A  guardian  Manitou  he  sees. 
Safely  he  entered  Prophetstown 
Without  a  single  skiey  frown, 
And  in  the  Prophet's  hut  he  sat  him  down. 
Two  other  men  were  there  to  meet  him, 
They  rose  in  white  man's  style  to  greet  him, 
And  threw  dim  outlines  in  the  gloaming. 
They,  too,  had  come  from  distant  roaming, 
And  on  the  self-same  spot  had  landed, 
By  hidden  power  together  banded, 
As  if  to  waylay  weal  of  chance 
And  rule  the  mighty  roll  of  circumstance ; 
By  throwing  pebbles  in  Rock  river 
They  thought  to  dam  the  Ocean  stream  for- 
ever, 

They  would  reverse  the  flow  of  History, 
Whirling  it  backward  across  the  sea, 
Whence  it  had  voyaged  to  America 
And  there  proposed  to  stay. 

Another  figure  let  us  mark, 
Whose  outlines  shot  into  the  dark 
So  that  he  hardly  could  be  seen, 
Yet  he  was  always  moving  in  between. 
This  was  the  Prophet,  named  White  Cloud, 
Who  sewed  his  meaning  in  a  shroud, 
Who   in   the   future   dream-world   loved   to 
grope 


THE   GATHERING  OF  RACES.  45 

And  of  it  weave  the  web  of  Indian  hope, 
Of  which  he  was  himself  the  spinning  spider 
Circling  the  net-lines  wider  and  yet  wider, 
Until  they  might  the  land  embrace, 
Entangling  prey  of  every  race. 
That  Prophet  was  the  soul  of  wiles, 
Made  faces  full  of  priestly  smiles ; 
He  played  upon  the  racial  hate, 
The  deepest  strain  in  man's  estate, 
Red  was  his  skin,  but  crossed  in  breed; 
That  undermined  in  him  the  Indian's  creed, 
Which  rooted  deeply  in  the  single  tribe: 
No  other  faith  the  savage  could  imbibe. 
Two  hostile  tribes  met  in  the  blood 
And  in  the  soul  of  this  red  Pope, 
Two  hateful  halves  oft  made  his  mood 
And  nullified  each  other's  scope; 
Two  Indians  fought  in  him  with  might, 
Each  scalped  the  other  in  the  fight, 
And  left  the  Prophet  blank  to  neither, 
So  that  he  could  be  both  or  either, 
Tribeless,  loveless,  yet  all  ambition 
To  turn  his  dream  of  power  to  fruition ; 
Deft  in  a  savage  sacerdotal  cunning, 
He  could  in  deepest  malice  seem  but  funning ; 
Still  through  his  craft  himself  had  reared 
To  be  the  Prophet  famed  and  feared 
By  Beds  in  all  the  regions  of  the  North ; 
Some  Whites,  too,  held  him  son  of  Earth, 
Possessing  a  mysterious  power  of  evil, 


46        CANTO   II— THE   CONFLICT   OF  RACES. 

And  leagued  by  blood-signed  paper  with  the 

Devil. 

So  from  afar  that  racial  four 
Have  come  to  spy  each  other's  store, 
Within  that  little  Indian    hut 
Unsunned,  untorched,  yet  smeared  in  smut. 
To  fill  the  dark  with  darker,  all  took  a  smoke, 
They  puffed  the  brooding  calumet, 
Twirling  its  vapor  in  many  a  stinking  jet ; 
The  Prophet  first  the  clouded  silence  broke : 

' '  Last  night  there  came  to  me  a  dream : 
Black  Hawk  I  saw  recross  a  stream ; 
It  was  the  loving  Father  of  Waters, 
Who,  with  his  thousand  fluff-haired  daugh- 
ters, 

Welcomed  his  greatest  son  as  yet 
Of  all  the  copper-mounted  set, 
And  bade  him  take  again  his  land 
Which  had  been  wrested  from  his  band. 
It  was  the  God's  own  invitation 
To  his  dear  people's  restoration. 
I   saw   the   Hawk   fly   back  to   his   fathers' 

graves, 
And  with  him  came   a   countless  horde   of 

braves, 

Who  pushed  the  white  face  over  the  border, 
The  women  and  children  shrieking  murder ; 
Beyond  the  Illinois  they  fled, 
The  battle  was  'tween  white  and  red, 


THE  GATHERING  OF  RACES.  47 

And  all  this  new-born  State 

We  dared  to  desolate. 

Through  the  Kaskaskia  we  plunge, 

Across  the  Ohio  we  make  a  lunge 

Into  Kentucky,  where  another  race 

We  come  upon  in  our  long  chase ; 

It  is  the  black  enslaved  by  white, 

He  is  our  ally  in  this  fight, 

The  red  and  black  shall  be  one  nation 

United  in  a  single  federation : 

Such  is  to  be  our  future  story — 

One  cause,  one  people,  and  one  territory, 

Irradiated  by  one  common  glory. 

Now  we  shall  wreak  on  whites  our  shame, 

What  they  have  done  we'll  do  the  same." 

The  Prophet  turned  then  to  another, 
Whom,  though  of  different  race,  he  called  his 

brother, 

And  flattered  with  his  best  attention, 
Whose  name  he  did  not  fail  to  mention: 
1  'I  have  invited  here  a  man 
Whose  tongue  can  tell  if  any  can, 
The  future  of  our  two-raced  nation, 
The  scope  of  all  our  aspiration. 
Swartface,  pour  out  thy  fluid  word 
And  tell  to  these  what  I  have  often  heard 
From  thee,  far  greater  than  my  dreams; 
In  thy  quick  brain  a  new  world  teems. 
Let  them  now  see  our  coming  State 


48        CANTO   II— THE   CONFLICT   OF  RACES. 

The  tinted  races  all  in  it  regenerate. 
The  sapient  lines  which  curl  a  wreath 
Upon  thy  brow,  give  to  them  breath." 

II. 

And  who  was  Swartface,  sitting  there 
In  silence  sullen,  as  in  his  lair, 
Ready  to  pounce  upon  his  prey, 
Unseen  except  his  eyeballs'  glare 
Which  now  and  then  would  fiercely  flare, 
As  if  they  flamed  to  slay. 
He  was  no  redskin,  not  a  trace 
Ban  in  his  blood  of  that  dying  race ; 
Adopted  in  an  Indian  tribe  he  was, 
But  only  for  a  deeper  cause, 
Bed  he  became  so  as  to  fight 
His  hated  foe  with  greater  might, 
Until  his  soul  turned  gory  with  despite, 
And  his  fierce  eye  shot  crimson  in  its  light. 
That  foe  was  a  Caucasian  skin, 
Though  to  it  he  himself  was  kin, 
One-half  of  white  he  was  or  more, 
But  the  black  mother  gave  her  store 
Of  race  to  a  white  father's  son, 
Thus  he  was  double,  yet  was  one. 
As  in  himself  he  had  two  races, 
So  he  was  owner  of  two  faces, 
One  writhed  and  wrestled  in  demoniac  hate, 
Its  lines  seemed  twisted  dragons  in  the  fight 
of  fate, 


8WARTFACE,   THE  MULATTO.  49 

The  other  face  could  turn  and  laugh  at  its 

own  mate, 

And  so  with  smile  of  courtesy, 
Yea,  with  a  strain  of  chivalry 
Its  wearer  well  it  would  ingratiate. 
And  yet  beneath  his  double  he  was  whole, 
Under  two  faces  he  had  one  soul . 
Of  a  slave-mother  in  Virginia 
He  was  brought  forth  unto  the  day, 
Then  to  Kentucky  he  was  sold 
When  scarcely  ten  years  old, 
To  Mr.  Davis  of  Christian  County, 
A  master  not  unkind  or  cold 
And  not  without  a  master's  bounty. 
Swartface  as  the  most  polished  one 
Of  all  his  slaves,  he  gave  to  serve  his  son, 
A  military  officer 
Who  felt  ambition's  deepest  stir 
To  put  his  laureled  name 
Upon  the  scroll  of  fame ; 
A  student's  prize  he  had  already  won: 
Young  Davis  bore  the  name  of  Jefferson. 
But  at  Fort  Snelling  one  bright  day 
Swartface  was  missing,  he  had  run  away, 
Though  he  as  slave  was  treated  well, 
Slavery  had  become  to  him  a  hell. 
He  turned  an  Indian  was  the  sequel, 
And  by  that  act  was  free  and  equal 
To  the  best  Eedskin  that  ever  was, 
Defying  whites  and  all  their  laws. 

•  4 


50        CANTO   II— THE   CONFLICT   OF  RACES. 

For  as  his  mother  was  a  slave  and  black, 

He  never  could  break  out  her  fastened  track 

Into  his  father's  life  and  station, 

And  so  it  was  with  all  his  generation. 

His  wife  and  child  he  could  not  bear, 

Waifs  he  deemed  them  of  despair, 

The  family  was  but  the  devil's  net, 

The  worst  of  all  the  curses  yet, 

If  he  a  slave  could  only  slaves  beget. 

At  birth  he  fell  from  the  upper  race 

Far  down  into  another, 

Though  he  could  see  his  full  white  brother 

Perched  high  above  him  in  the  loftiest  place, 

Disowning  him,  though  every  drop  of  blood 

Conjoined  them  in  a  common  brotherhood. 

He  gnashed  his  teeth  at  such  disgrace, 

Into  whose  Hell  he  had  been  thrown 

When  born,  and  by  no  sinning  of  his  own; 

He  cursed  himself  as  father  and  as  son, 

In  both  he  deemed  himself  undone. 

The  universe  itself  seemed  rotten, 

And  Heaven  too,  should  be  thrown  in, 

Damning  him  begetter  and  begotten, 

For  his  unsinned  sin. 

And  so,  as  he  grew  up  apace, 

He  brooded  on  the  conflicts  of  his  race, 

His  tribesmen  soon  gave  him  a  name 

Which  dimly  hinted  whence  he  came, 

A  swarthy  face  and  ringed  hair 

Showed  him  to  be  no  Indian's  heir. 


8WARTFACE,  THE  MULATTO.  5^ 

English  he  well  could  read  and  write, 

Had  learned  them  both  in  law's  despite, 

Some  of  his  master's  books  in  stealth 

He  had  devoured,  and  won  their  wealth, 

Of  verse  he  owned  one  little  book 

And  kept  it  hid  in  safest  nook, 

From  it  his  deepest  draughts  he  took ; 

And  thus  by  secret  education 

He  shared  in  the  new  age's  civilization. 

He  also  knew  mechanic  trades : 

Could  shape  the  keen-edged  tomahawk, 

And  shave  its  helve  without  a  balk — 

In  battle,  too,  he  made  it  talk. 

He  fashioned  every  kind  of  blades — 

To  stab,  to  rip,  to  slash, 

Anywise  to  make  a  gash — 

Possessing  which  the  savage  still, 

Though  only  knowing  how  to  kill, 

Might  foeman  slay  with  foeman's  skill. 

A  damaged  gun  could  Swartface  fix, 

With  handicraft  so  clever 

That  it  would  shoot  as  well  as  ever : 

A  wonder-doer  for  his  tricks 

And  knacks  and  works,  both  great  and  small; 

Those  Kedskins  deemed  he  could  do  all 

By  means  of  power  magical. 

But  now  he  plays  another  part 

Which  shows  the  bottom  of  his  heart, 

Eeveals  as  one  his  dual  soul 

As  he  looks  out  upon  his  goal ; 


52    CANTO  II— THE  CONFLICT  OF  RACES. 

The  Indian  mind  he  well  discerned, 
The  Indian  tongue,  too,  he  had  learned, 
And  now  would  speak  it  at  its  best, 
In  answer  to  White  Cloud 's  request : 

"Mulatto  I,  with  hybrid's  hate 

For  his  despised  debauched  estate ! 

But  from  my  old  condition 

Has  sprung  a  new  ambition : 

My  vengeance  soon  I  hope  to  sate ; 

Methinks  I  see  the  coming  date 

On  which  I  shall  wipe  out  the  white, 

And  give  my  other  self  its  right, 

Which  always  was  put  basely  down 

Until  I  came  to  Prophetstown : 

Here  from  man  civilized  I  changed 

And  with  you  savages  I  ranged; 

I  would  begin  the  world  anew, 

All  wrong  it  has  been  going  hitherto. 

In  every  drop  of  blood  I  feel  the  fight 

Between  the  black  man  and  the  white, 

An  inner  civil  war  is  mine, 

I  hear  it  waged  in  wrath  malign 

Of  fierce  contending  arms, 

With  all  the  wounds  and  pains  and  harms, 

Even  to  death's  alarms. 

These  battles  inner  I  shall  make  outer, 

And  there  shall  wage  them  all  the  stouter; 

The  thunderous  onset  of  my  soul 

Will  yet  be  echoed  in  the  cannon's  roll. 


8WARTFACE,  THE  MULATTO.        53 

Our  red  men  here  with  Black  Hawk's  braves, 

I  shall  conduct  to  free  the  slaves; 

The  black  and  red  shall  then  unite 

To  rid  us  of  the  intruder  white 

Whose  land  shall  be  our  own  estate, 

And  we  shall  dwell  inseparate. 

The  union  of  the  races  is  my  plan, 

The  highest  union,  that  of  man; 

The  racial  tint  in  every  human  face 

It  is  my  deepest  purpose  to  erase, 

If  not  by  nature,  then  by  institution, 

Of  this  world 's  war  such  is  the  last  solution. 

In  my  best  moments  I  can  feel 

That  union  as  the  eternal  commonweal, 

And  then  my  every  double  drop  of  blood 

Becomes  prophetic  in  me  of  that  final  good. 

But  now  my  own  twin  racial  halves 

Are  hurtling  still  against  themselves, 

Through  every  vein  is  running  strife 

Between  the  double  elements  of  life ; 

I  oft  can  hear  my  knuckles  rattle, 

My  very  bones  quake  in  the  shock  of  battle, 

From  the  two  races  in  me  smiting, 

That  war — I  can  already  see  it  fighting, 

Mine  is  the  white-black's  vengeful  hate 

Which  holds  me  pinioned  to  my  fate, 

So  that  I  can  but  seldom  rise  to  be 

The  higher  one  above  my  fierce  duality ; 

I  hear  my  mother 's  blood  in  me  to  rate 

My  father's  for  its  deep  damnation, 


54    CANTO  II— THE  CONFLICT  OF  RACES. 

And  load  him  with  the  curse  of  all  creation, 

In  which  the  world  did  once  begin 

Its  paradise  of  sin. 

Once  more  I  tell  my  deeper  scheme 

E  'en  though  it  turn  out  but  a  dream, 

For  I  am  one  at  last,  though  two  I  seem : 

Two  races  I  would  make  one  nation, 

Which,  separate,  must  die 

Without  a  trace  in  history — 

That  is  the  newest  federation, 

Which  yet  will  circle  the  whole  earth, 

With  its  uplifting  girth 

Heaven-suspended 

And  God-attended, 

Removing  this  curst  stain  of  racial  birth 

Which  now  discolors  every  human  life, 

Ingraining  it  with  mortal  strife." 

So  pictured  Swartface  his  self -fight, 
And  whizzed  his  fist  defiant  of  the  night, 
Upon  his  knee  he  pounded 
So  that  the  hut  resounded, 
And  all  his  fellows  felt  a  little  fright 
Lest  unawares  he  took  them  all  for  white. 
Two  Satans  in  his  soul  appeared, 
They  coiled  and  clinched  with  heads  upreared, 
The  white  in  him  would  damn  the  black, 
Who  never  failed  to  send  the  curses  back ; 
Thus  each  the  other  hissed  and  imprecated, 
Though    every    blood    corpuscle    kept    them 
mated ; 


SWARTFACE,   THE  MULATTO.  55 

The  one  rose  up  the  Southern  gentleman, 

The  other  crouched  his  slaved  African ; 

Caucasian  brain  in  kinky  pate 

Begetting  furious  racial  hate, 

Imprisoned  was  in  wall  of  fate — 

The  thick-built  negro  skull 

Which  keeps  its  captive  null 

And  never  will  be  broken 

Until  a  great  new  word  be  spoken. 

Yet  Swartface  had  a  deeper  strand 

Which  may  to-morrow  voice  to  him  command, 

A  something  good  far  down 

Which  he  cannot  quite  drown. 

The  speech  delighted  the  red  Pope, 

It  seemed  to  build  the  fortress  of  his  hope 

And  pinnacle  topmost  his  tall  ambition, 

Whereof  he  dreamed  the  quick  fruition. 

But  to  the  Redskins  all  that  thought 

Of  twinned  alliance  Swartface  taught, 

Prophet  was  the  preacher, 

Mulatto  was  the  teacher 

Of  what  his  own  two-natured  soul 

Could  read  within  as  from  a  scroll, 

And  whisper  to  the  Prophet  when  alone 

Who  then  would  tongue  the  prophecy  as  if 

his  own. 

Swartf ace's  words  pleased  too,  Black  Hawk, 
Whose  hatred  loved  that  sort  of  talk, 
Who  with  the  Prophet  had  agreed 


56        CANTO   II— THE   CONFLICT   OF  RACES. 

To  wreak  the  bloody  deed. 

Though  these  two  were  of  separate  station, 

Each  plied  his  own  red-skinned  vocation, 

One  was  the  warrior,  the  seer  the  other, 

Kuling  the  double-headed  savage  state, 

And  both  together  sought  to  imitate 

Warman  Tecumseh  and  his  prophet  brother. 

But  if  the  future  be  forecast 

By  what  has  happened  in  the  past 

Then  it  will  turn  out  that  these  two 

Will  also  meet  their  Tippecanoe. 

III. 

A  man  was  present  at  that  speech 

Whose  heart  it  wholly  failed  to  reach, 

Turn  it  around  as  he  might  please : 

Of  stain  Caucasian,  he  was  ill  at  ease, 

He  heard  his  race  assailed  that  night 

And  all  that  was  his  deepest  own ; 

He  felt  himself  in  Hell  alone, 

Although  a  priest  anointed, 

The  one  full-blooded  white, 

Bedamned  to  sulphurous  racial  spite, 

In  this  red  world  un jointed. 

He  was  of  fierce  Black  Hawk  the  friend, 

Whose  mind  he  artfully  could  bend, 

The  savage  yielded  to  the  subtle  skill 

Which  gave  direction  to  the  ruder  will. 

Like  White  Cloud  too  he  had  his  priestly  hope, 


THE  SPANISH  PRIEST.  57 

With  whom  in  craft  he  had  to  cope. 

This  white-skinned  priest  now  tests  another 

skin, 

Although  his  texture  be  more  fine  and  thin; 
The  exquisite  diplomatist 
The  subtle,  dainty-worded  casuist 
Who  to  the  savage  West  had  come 
With  all  the  discipline  of  Rome, 
Now  bumping,  thumping,  clubbing  brain-pans 

blunt 
Will  have  to  stand  this  rough  red  devil's 

brunt, 

For  of  that  finer  sacerdotal  fence 
Our  White  Cloud  had  but  little  sense. 

Thus  still  another  race  was  at  this  feast 

Of  human  colors,  pure  and  mingled, 

Held  in  a  Winnebago  tenement 

Remote  from  any  European  settlement: 

The  fourth  man  was  he,  now  outsingled, 

All  bade  him  speak — this  Spanish  priest — 

A  Jesuit  missionary, 

His  bearing  high  and  military, 

Of  human  beings  the  most  wary. 

Of  feelings  he  was  chary, 

A  learned  man  at  Salamanca  trained, 

With  Roman  culture  well  ingrained, 

The  Indian  tongues  he  could  all  speak 

From  the  Great  Lakes  down  to  Pike's  Peak, 

As  well  as  the  old  Latin  and  the  Greek ; 


58         CANTO   II— THE   CONFLICT   OF  RACES. 

And  thence  to  Mexico  he  had  a  trail 
Which  topped  the  mount  and  thrid  the  vale ; 
Out  Mexico  it  led  to  Spain, 
Surging  across  the  mighty  main; 
From  the  new  world  back  to  the  old  again 
He  forged  a  strong  but  unseen  chain ; 
A  continent  he  would  concatenate 
With  his  own  Order,  Church,  and  State; 
A  hemisphere  he  would  put  under 
One  little  terrene  speck  though  far  asunder, 
It  interweave  in  priestly  leading-strings, 
Keeping  its  folk  forever  underlings, 
While  at  recusants  he  could  pitch  some  thun- 
der, 

And  for  the  faithful  work  a  wonder. 
From  upper  inland  seas 
Of  cold  Canadian  land 
Till  where  the  southern  balmy  breeze 
Forever  summers  on  the  Eio  Grande 
He  like  Arachne,  spun  his  net 
And  kept  it  always  trimly  set, 
Which  you  would  brush  into,  go  where  you 

please. 

Francesco  Molinar  was  this  man  named, 
For  his  devotion  highly  famed 
And  for  his  piety  religious 
As  well  as  for  his  lore  prodigious. 
And  yet  he  also  had  his  hate, 
He  could  not  brook  the  American  state 
So  different  in  disposition 


THE  SPANISH  PRIEST.  59 

From  the  Spanish  inquisition. 

The  worship  on  the  rude  frontier 

Would  cause  in  him  a  holy  sneer, 

He  sniffed  too  at  the  backwoods  teacher 

With  learned  Jesuit  compared, 

School  master  Mentor  Graham, 

How  would  Francesco  flay  him ! 

And  Peter  Cartright,  the  circuit  preacher, 

As  heretic  would  not  be  spared 

On  the  last  Judgment  Day, 

But  given  a  Hell-lit  auto-da-fe, 

With  faggots  by  the  Devil  himself  prepared. 

But  a  still  deeper  hatred  in  him  lurked, 

And  every  fibre  of  his  being  worked, 

Aye,  made  him  sometimes  lose  his  balanced 

mood; 

Abhorred  was  the  entire  Teutonic  brood 
From  that  first  Gothic  multitude 
Who  smote  to  death  antique  high  Rome, 
Then  stole  its  ruins  for  their  home; 
But  specially  this  brazen  Anglo-Saxon  branch 
Forth  sweeping  westward  like  an  avalanche, 
Whose  flow  no  Rome-born  state  could  stanch, 
Now  threats  to  drive  out  Latin  blood 
From  where  it  had  for  centuries  stood, 
From  high-up  Canada's  Great  Lakes, 
Where  once  it  set  its  boundary  stakes, 
Then  followed  down  the  Mississippi's  vale, 
Of  which  it  told  the  first  romantic  tale. 
It  seized  all  countries  round  the  Gulf, 


CANTO  II—  THE  CONFLICT  OF  RACES. 


Land-hungrier  than  the  old  Roman 

Which  gorged  the  Mediterranean  world; 

And  then  itself,  to  downfall  hurled, 

Was  speared  to  death  by  the  same  Teuton 

throng  ; 
This  act  the  Spaniard  termed  Time's  great- 

est wrong. 

So  he  had  too,  his  ethnic  hate 
Active,  though  ages  old,  and  still  insatiate. 
But  just  this  war  was  in  his  eyes 
A  cause  the  more  to  anathematize  — 
The  freck,  elbowing  Anglo-Saxon, 
Who,  having  bought  the  great  North-  West, 
Would  put  the  Latin  to  the  test  — 
Whose  President  was  Andrew  Jackson, 
A  will  at  times  most  wilful, 
And  yet  with  cunning  skillful. 
Thus  Molinar  has  found  his  place 
In  this  unceasing  strife  of  race, 
Which  courses  through  all  history 
Down  into  you  and  me. 
In  him  as  representative 
His  Church,  his  State,  his  Stock  did  live, 
Nor  could  he  ever  forget  his  Order 
Whose  head  had  sent  him  to  this  far-off  bor- 

der, 

Where  had  begun  the  final  strife 
Between  his  world  and  its  new  foe, 
Of  whom  he  sought  the  overthrow, 
Ready  to  offer  up  his  life. 


THE  SPANISH  PRIEST.  fa 

Yet  Molinar  gave  his  laborious  days 

To  what  he  deemed  the  truth  of  God 's  ways, 

Capable  of  the  greatest  sacrifice 

He  did  himself  not  seek  to  rise. 

To  sick  and  dying  he  would  give  his  all, 

He  sternly  followed  duty's  call 

And  made  himself  its  meanest  thrall. 

Now  in  that  pitch-dark  Indian  tenement, 

In  which  as  lightless 

All  must  be  sightless, 

Every  tint  of  skin  was  getting  eloquent. 

First  Molinar  had  to  dissent 

From  the  Mulatto's  argument; 

All  heard  the  tell-tale  face, 

Unseen  it  spoke  the  race. 

The  Hybrid  must  dislike  him  as  a  White, 

Each  felt  the  other's  spite, 

And  failed  not  to  requite. 

For  Molinar  upheld  his  kind, 

And  culture  too  he  highly  prized, 

Would  keep  the  world  still  civilized 

If  only  moulded  to  his  mind. 

But  that  red  Prophet's  lofty  hope, 

Sounded  to  him  like  that  of  antipope, 

In  word  and  also  thought; 

To  deal  with  him  he  hardly  ought, 

As  twin  of  the  incarnate  evil, 

As  Mother  Church's  very  Devil. 

The  heathen  doctor  he  could  not  abide, 


g2        CANTO   II— THE   CONFLICT   OF  RACES. 

And  still  his  horror  he  must  deftly  hide; 

Yet  each  was  priest  to  his  own  kind, 

Each  had  a  trait  of  priestly  mind, 

And  thought  the  other  far  behind 

In  knowledge  of  the  deity, 

What  God  Himself  would  do  and  be ; 

In  fine,  each  deemed  his  side  quite  free 

Of  sacerdotal  jealousy, 

But  held  the  other  thus  afflicted 

And  bad  results  thereof  predicted. 

The   Hawk   called   on   the   priest   once   and 

again 

To  say  to  their  far-reaching  scheme  amen, 
And  to  invoke  the  white  man's  God 
His  folk  to  chastise  with  the  sinner's  rod; 
A  gentle  clerkly  tone  he  took 
Whose  dulcet  flow  him  ne'er  forsook: 

"Vengeance  is  not  the  way  divine, 
Let  charity  be  always  thine, 
Forbearance  is  the  holier  dower, 
And  love  imparts  the  greater  power. 
WTioso  avenges,  commits  sin, 
And  Heaven's  bliss  can  never  win, 
But  even  here  below  his  own 
Comes  back  to  him  in  many  a  groan; 
The  Sacred  Scripture  oft  hath  said, 
With  what  ye  pay,  ye  shall  be  paid; 
If  it  be  Hate,  your  portion  Hate  shall  be 
Tf  it  be  Love,  reward  will  just  agree. 


THE  SPANISH  PRIEST.  53 

• 

Duty  to  Holy  Church  is  first, 

To  scorn  its  sealed  priest  is  worst ; 

Confess  to  him  thy  hidden  heart 

If  thou  wouldst  choose  the  better  part. 

One  Spirit  Great  rules  over  red  and  white — 

That  is  the  truth  which  rays  all  light. 

Him  would  I  bring  to  you,  for  He 

Loves  every  race  impartially; 

Bed,  black,  and  white  are  all  his  children 

dear, 

He  will  you  save  if  you  but  hear, 
And  free  you  of  the  future's  fear. 

"Good  is  this  Spirit  of  whom  I've  told; 
But  hark !  there  is  a  Spirit  bad  and  bold, 
Who  sometimes  gets  his  grip  on  men, 
Clutching  them  down  into  his  den, 
Where  burns  a  pitchy  fire  infernal 
Which  causes  tears  and  pangs  eternal. 
Americans  are  of  the  Devil's  brood, 
Not  children  of  the  Spirit  good, 
Foes  of  his  Church  and  State  and  Stock, 
Their  further  progress  we  must  block, 
Or  else  by  Satan's  imps  be  jammed, 
Or  e'en  with  them  to  Hell  be  damned. 
With  you  Black  Hawk  I  shall  unite 
To  vent  on  them  the  Lord's  own  spite, 
And  drive  them  backward  whence  they  came 
Over  the  Alleghenies,  in  God's  name. 
Yet  of  these  facial  shades  no  perfect  play 


64    CANTO  II— THE  CONFLICT  OF  RACES. 

Can  be  without  another  tinted  ray; 

Three  colors  make  our  racial  prism 

Which  I  shall  bless  with  holy  chrism; 

To  red  and  black  I'll  add  my  mite — 

Another  stain — it  is  the  white, 

All  three  I  shall  here  consecrate 

As  corner-stone  of  newest  House  of  State, 

In  which  will  dwell  the  social  ultimate. 

My  race  will  unify  your  double  nation, 

My  third  your  two  will  mediate, 

And  weld  your  new  confederation, 

Rounding  it  out  to  fend  off  fate. 

The  sign  of  God  Himself  we  see 

Stamped  on  this  racial  trinity, 

Which  I  shall  bless  in  holy  rite, 

And  fill  it  with  the  Lord's  own  might. 

I  now  proclaim  it  Heaven 's  plan : 

All  races  join  against  the  American, 

Who  stands  athwart  the  unity  of  man." 

So  spake  Francesco  Molinar, 

Who  had  some  hate  still  left  for  war 

Against  the  foe  hereditary, 

And  who  had  journeyed  from  afar 

Through  space,  down  time, 

With  fortitude  sublime, 

To  meet  him  on  the  Western  prairie 

For  final  tug  extraordinary 

Between  the  Latin  and  Teutonic  mettle 

The  future  course  of  History  to  settle. 


THE  SPANISH  PRIEST.  $5 

He  is  the  Soldier  of  his  Order 

Against  heresiarchs  of  the  young  border 

Just  drawn  between  the  old  and  new 

Which  now  the  Mississippi  brings  to  view : 

As  once  upon  the  rambling  Rhine 

His  ancestor  defended  Caesar's  line 

Against  the  same  bnpressing  brood 

Which  could  not  be  withstood. 

Apostle  too  he  was  political, 

And  weened  he  might  perpetuate 

Out  here  the  Latin  State ; 

He  could  be  very  critical 

Of  this  new-fledged  democracy 

Compared  to  good  old  Spain's  autocracy; 

A  President  instead  of  King 

For  him  had  a  demoniac  ring; 

His  well-galled  tongue  spared  not  attacks  on 

The  people's  hero.  Andrew  Jackson, 

The  type  of  westering  Anglo-Saxon. 

Still  the  humanitarian 

Would  see  in  both  the  one  white  skin — 

The  Latin  and  the  Teuton  were  blood-kin, 

For  both  of  them  were  Aryan. 

And  if  far  back  in  time  we  reach, 

We  hear  them  talking  each  to  each. 

Just  in  the  self-same  syllables  of  speech. 

Swartface  made  ready  to  attack 
This  argument  of  priestly  Spain, 


(Jg    CANTO  II— THE  CONFLICT  OF  RACES. 

But  by  the  Prophet  was  held  back, 

"Whose  speech  ran  in  the  following  vein: 

"We  three  must  pull  as  one  at  least, 

And  join  this  crusade  with  the  priest, 

Who  has  his  end  as  we  have  ours, 

United  we  must  wield  our  powers; 

Divided  we  are  lost 

And  might  as  well  give  up  the  ghost." 

Uneasy  Black  Hawk  here  broke  in: 

"I  must  return  now  to  my  kin 

And  rouse  them  with  all  speed, 

Though  Keokuk  will  try  to  check  my  deed 

With  the  rattle  of  his  talking  mill, 

But  Jesuit  has  equal  skill. 

Thou  Molinar,  must  go  with  me, 

Important  work  I  have  for  thee. 

My  dreamful  White  Cloud,  now  good-bye, 

I  see  the  day  of  vengeance  nigh ; 

And  stormy  hero,  strong  Swartface 

Get  ready  to  wake  up  thy  race, 

Then  with  the  toiling  African 

We'll  start  confederated  man." 

The  Prophet's  face  shone  like  a  star 

Flashing  a  word  to  Molinar : 

"Go  with  Black  Hawk,  I  cannot  go, 

One  priest  is  enough,  and  I  have  much  to  do ; 

I'll  keep  aflame  our  lofty  scope 

And  weld  all  races  in  one  hope ; 

Now  to  the  trial  of  it. ' ' 

So  blazed  ambitious  the  red  Prophet, 


THE  PLAN.  07 

In  tonguey  bodeful  flare 

Which  seemed  the  Lord  to  dare 

To  Molinar,  who  tittered  a  teehee  scoff, 

Whispering  to  Black  Hawk:  "Let's  be  off." 

IV. 

When  they  had  gone,  the  speech  outcropped 

Of  Swartface  overfull,  who  had  been  stopped 

By  the  sly  Prophet  politic, 

Lest  unity  might  get  a  crick. 

"That  cunning  priest,"  quoth  he,  "I  should 

have  told, 

All  that  his  people  seek  is  gold ; 
I  read  in  story  of  the  Spanish, 
They  are  as  greedy  and  as  clannish 
As  the  English  whom  they  hate, 
And  brand  as  avaricious  and  ingrate, 
But  always  underrate. 
They  stole  the  Africans  for  slaves, 
And  worked  the  Beds  to  rapid  graves, 
His  fight  is  but  a  selfish  fight 
Of  white  against  another  white, 
In  which  he  will  make  us  his  tool 
That  he  may  win  his  nation's  rule — 
He  will  not  find  me  such  a  fool, 
Though  his  soft  speech  be  Latin 
With  surface  smooth  as  satin. 
I  care  not  for  his  Nation,  Church  or  Stock 
To  which  comes  ever  back  his  talk; 


gg        CANTO   II—THE   CONFLICT   OF  RACES. 

I  reach  down  to  the  race, 

And  on  it  all  my  world  I  base; 

In  him  our  master  still  is  white 

And  we  are  slaves  without  a  right, 

I  scarce  can  bear  him  in  my  sight. 

That  priest  still  grades  the  human  creature, 

Tracing  the  turn  and  tint  of  feature ; 

I  tell  thee  my  sole  creed 

Which  I  shall  make  my  deed: 

As  I  hate  the  facial 

So  I  love  the  racial. 

And  list  me  thou,  the  newest  pope, 

No  longer  in  the  narrows  grope, 

Be  not  the  shallow-pated  priest  of  faces, 

But  universal  mediator  of  the  races." 

So  spake  that  semi- African 

And  glorying  glimpsed  the  greatness  of  his 

plan ; 

But  when  he  had  himself  thus  heard 
He  could  not  stop,  he  was  so  stirred 
By  the  momentum  mighty  of  his  word: 
' '  That  Priest  holds  Black  Hawk  under  thumb 
But  back  to  us  he  is  not  like  to  come. 
For  he  will  try  to  win  sage  Keokuk, 
But  with  that  chief  will  have  no  luck, 
At  such  mishap  the  self-same  day 
He  well  may  start  the  other  way; 
Bent  on  his  trail  to  Mexico 
I  seem  to  see  him  go, 


THE  PLAN.  (J9 

And  thence  perhaps  again 
He  will  be  landed  in  old  Spain, 
And  so  he  will  complete  life's  round 
Returning  to  his  early  stamping-ground, 
Where  he  will  find  his  Church  and  State  and 

Order 

Just  at  their  central  hold  of  power, 
Still  living  on  their  ancient  dower, 
And  cooped  up  in  their  medieval  tower, 
Far  from  the  Mississippi  border. 
He  stands,  if  he  go  with  us,  in  the  way; 
He 's  past,  whatever  he  may  do  or  say, 
Of  this  great  futuring  North  West 
Where  is  to  be  the  New  World's  best, 
He  never  can  get  hold, 
His  world  is  all  too  old, 
Besides,  it  is  unfree, 
Transplanted  here  it  cannot  be, 
I  doubt  if  him  again  we  '11  ever  see, 
Let  him  but  glimpse  futurity. ' ' 

The  Prophet  here  sprang  to  his  feet 

And  forward  leaped  as  if  to  greet 

His  lofty-coming  destiny; 

To  Swartface  he  proclaimed  at  once: 

''You  need  not  take  me  for  a  dunce; 

Francesco  thinks  he 's  using  me 

To  build  up  his  supremacy, 

But  I  am  working  at  my  own, 

Although  I  throw  him  now  and  then  a  bone. 


70        CANTO   II— THE   CONFLICT   OF  RACES. 

With  his  fine  ways  I  must  be  charmed, 

Still,  Swartface  dear,  be  not  alarmed; 

Me  but  a  savage  dull  he  deems, 

A  redskin  prophet  given  up  to  dreams, 

Whom  he  with  ease  can  overmatch, 

But  I  shall  bring  him  to  the  scratch; 

Priest  against  priest — both  are  divine, 

A  trick  I'll  show  him  in  his  own  line. 

A  coppery  juggler  to  the  white, 

I'll  turn  him  inside  out  to  his  own  sight. 

But  let  me  now  repeat  to  thee 

What  thou  hast  oft  inspired  in  me : 

I  would  not  be  a  priest  of  sect  or  stock, 

Latin  or  Teuton,  whatever  be  the  grade — 

Black,  white  or  red,  of  every  shade, 

All  men  all-tinted  make  my  flock, 

In  that  my  thought  is  one  with  yours, 


LBj 

We  shall  take  in  all  out-of-doors. ' ' 


Here  Swartface  stops  the  flow  of  dreams 

With  which  the  brain  of  White  Cloud  teems : 

"Let  us  the  plan  now  execute 

On  which  we  often  have  agreed, 

Of  thought  we  have  not  plucked  the  fruit 

Until  we  do  the  deed. 

The  Winnebagoes,  Potawatomies, 

And  other  tribes  through  you  will  rise, 

For  all  the  Beds  and  e'en  some  Whites  deem 

you 
To  be  the  voice  of  the  Great  Spirit  true ; 


THE  PLAN.  71 

You  have  been  baiting  long  this  trap, 
Let  it  be  sprung  before  mishap. 
Besides,  you  have  hatched  out  a  scheme 
By  which  Fort  Armstrong  may  be  caught, 
Its  head  in  cunning  overraught; 
Let  this  no  longer  be  a  dream 
To  play  with  as  if  fancy's  fitful  gleam. 
Such  work  I  would  not  of  you  ask, 
Unless  I  gave  myself  a  bolder  task, 
Which  I  shall  have  to  play  in  mask: 
I  hasten  to  the  volunteers 
Whose  northward  march  our  river  nears, 
Among  them  I  shall  move  disguised, 
Not  in  mulatto  skin  despised, 
But  as  a  sunburnt  farmer  white 
Bringing  his  truck  to  soldiers  there, 
And  spying  out  how  great  their  might, 
What  doings  they  intend  to  dare — 
Eaves-dropping  all  about  the  coming  fight, 
The  rumors  snaking  through  an  army's  air, 
Like  a  vast  vat  of  eels  a-wriggling, 
I'll  hearken  best  just  when  I'm  higgling. 
Perchance  a  hunter  too  I'll  play, 
Trailing  the  game  along  the  way, 
To  sate  the  hunger  of  their  camp, 
Till  in  my  brain  I  bear  its  stamp. ' ' 

White  Cloud  still  in  prophetic  swing, 
Slapped  on  his  knee  and  spake :  ' '  That  is  the 
thing. 


72   CANTO  II— THE  CONFLICT  OF  RACES. 

Let  each  of  us  make  such  an  offering ; 
The  Prophet  I  shall  be  and  you  the  King, 
0£  my  large  hope  you  see  the  traces, 
I  am  to  be  the  priest  of  all  the  races, 
And  then  unite  in  one  vast  fellowship" 
Broke  Swartface  in:  "Enough  of  that, 
Let  us  now  do  it,  pat — 
The  sun  is  up,  come,  let  us  skip." 


Canto  <Efjirb. 


LINCOLN  AT  NEW  SALEM. 
I. 

New  Salem  had  already  heard — 

A  farmer  brought  the  welcome  word — 

That  Lincoln,  tall  New  Salemite, 

Had  gained  at  Richland  his  first  fight, 

And  had  at  once  his  march  begun ; 

He  would  reach  home  ere  day  be  done, 

Perchance  at  nooning  of  the  sun. 

The  entire  town  turned  out  to  see 

The  Captain  and  his  company, 

The  feather  in  his  cap  to  measure, 

And  weigh  in  worth  this  new-trove  treasure, 

As  well  as  give  the  lad  some  pleasure. 

The  cry  soon  rose :  They  come,  they  come ! 

And  at  their  head  the  big  bass-drum 

Reverberated  rumbling  noise 

To  the  delight  of  all  the  boys, 

(73) 


74        CANTO  HI—  LINCOLN  AT  NEW  SALEM. 

Who  bare-footed  in  a  minnow  drove 

Were  shoaled  about  the  music  they  did  love, 

And  patted  tempo  to  the  strain, 

Wanting  to  hear  it  all  again. 

The  tip-top  fifer,  too,  was  there, 

Who  trod  the  time  with  soldier  air, 

Big  Blowhard  with  his  graying  hair, 

High-headed  fifer,  old  Tom  Cunes, 

Who  blew  a  battle  in  his  tunes  ; 

Striding  along  in  steady  stalk, 

He  always  made  his  whistle  talk; 

And  though  he  had  to  blow  uphill, 

He  led  his  charging  sounds  at  will  ; 

Though  steep  the  path  he  had  to  climb, 

He  took  the  fortress  every  time. 

Now  at  his  very  best  he  blew, 

His  hat  he  nodded  off  his  head, 

His  broad-brimmed  hat  of  straw  just  new, 

It  fell  down  where  he  had  to  tread, 

He  kicked  it  out  aside  the  road 

And  onward  still  uphill  he  strode, 

The  peopled  top-knot  of  New  Salem 

In  hurrahing  chorus  there  did  hail  him. 

His  silver  shock  of  hair  bounced  round  his 


Which  to  his  step  bobbed  up  and  down  ; 
While  out  his  fife  the  martial  notes  did  roll 
And  to  the  music  marched  the  town, 
Whose   festal   head  was   decked   with   rosy 
crown. 


THE  RECEPTION.  75 

Old  Tom  had  fifed  for  General  Harrison, 
For  Croghan  in  Sandusky  garrison, 
Against  the  Beds  and  British  too ; 
He  fifing  fought  at  Tippecanoe, 
And  blew  to  beat  Tecumseh's  brother, 
The  prophet  twin  of  the  one  mother. 
There  he  this  same  Black  Hawk  had  seen, 
At  whom  he  shrilled  his  whistle  keen, 
Which  louder  buzzed  than  whizzing  musket 

ball, 

And  pierced  the  cannon's  roar  with  battle  call, 
Shooting  the  smoke  of  powder  through  and 

through 

With  furious  blast  of  Yankee-doodle-doo. 
Nor  was  in  battle  Tom  a  cipher, 
All  famed  him  as  the  fighting  fifer, 
For  when  his  fife  was  shattered  by  a  bullet, 
He  took  a  trigger  and  oft  did  pull  it ; 
The  splinters  of  his  pipe  he  threw  away, 
But  kept  the  mouthpiece  to  this  day; 
Now  through  that  leaden  hole  he  blows 
While  to  and  fro  his  noddle  goes. 
The  hollow  nib  he  presses  with  his  lips, 
And  up  and  down  he  plays  his  finger  tips 
Over  the  vents  of  his  sideling  fife, 
Into  whose  notes  he  puffs  his  very  life 
Steeling  the  heart  with  passion  grim, 
Or  thrilling  it  with  a  lofty  hymn; 
So  at  the  head  of  Lincoln's  jocund  band, 
He  fifes  up  "Hail  Columbia,  Happy  Land." 


76        CANTO  III— LINCOLN  AT  NEW  SALEM. 

Two  sets  of  men  were  by  him  hated, 

The  British  and  the  Beds  he  mated 

In  his  long  memory  of  wrath, 

For  what  they  wrought  of  wrongful  scath 

Unto  his  folk  of  the  frontier; 

The  fifer  too  was  pioneer, 

But  now  it  was  Black  Hawk  alone, 

Whom  he  in  Canada  had  known 

At  the  Thames '  battle  where  Tecumseh  died ; 

Black  Hawk  ran  from  the  chieftain 's  side, 

Skulking  away  he  sneaked  through  forests 

back, 
"With  our  regiment,"  said  Tom,  "hot  on  his 

track, 

Till  in  his  prairie  hole  he  slunk, 
And  there  he  stunk  us  out,  the  skunk. ' ' 
Blunt  Tom  could  blurt  as  well  as  blow, 
His  mind  he  let  the  people  know, 
Who  would  sing  back  his  vengeful  note, 
And  merciless  would  cut  a  race's  throat. 
He  held  aloft  his  instrument 
Batoning  with  it  his  intent : 
* '  Abe  Lincoln,  I  shall  go  with  you, 
And  blow  the  boys  the  battle  through — 
Blow  the  last  note  of  my  old  life,    . 
And  breathe  my  dying  breath  through  this 

deai  fife. 

I  have  to  tell  the  tale  in  every  talk 
Of  the  red  devil  and  his  tomahawk 
Lifted  against  the  border  all  my  youth, 


THE  RECEPTION.  77 

The  lying  Indian  never  told  the  truth ; 

Could  I  but  help  you  gain  your  goal, 

I  fain  would  whistle  out  my  soul, 

And  then  my  ghastly  ghost  would  fife  as  well 

Against  that  red-skinned  Splayfoot  down  in 

Hell. 

An  Indian  is  old  Nick,  I  know, 
To  fife  him  out  I'd  go  below." 
But  Abe  spoke  quickly  up,  * '  No,  no ! 
We  do  not  want  him  too  up  here, 
Just  let  him  stay  down  there,  so  so, 
He  would  be  sure  to  volunteer, 
So  many  friends  he  has,  I  fear, 
He  might  be  chosen  captain  in  my  place, 
I  know  that  he  would  make  the  race ; 
The  Devil,  even  though  he  scoff  us, 
Is  always  ready  for  an  office. ' ' 
No  answer  Tom  made  with  his  tongue, 
Perchance  he  was  a  little  stung. 
He  gave  his  fife  a  sudden  tip, 
And  raised  it  to  his  puckered  lip, 
When  all  at  once  he  made  it  scream 
The  infernal  tune  of  "Devil's  Dream." 
Then  Tom  his  hollow  stick  caressed 
As  if  it  were  a  baby  blest, 
And  that  dull  leaden  nib  he  kissed, 
Which  his  fond  lips  had  never  missed ; 
Then  all  the  people  shouted  glory, 
For  he  had  told  each  man's  own  story, 
Which  tingled  every  borderer 


78        CANTO  III— LINCOLN  AT  NEW  SALEM. 

Until  each  blood-drop  ran  to  war. 
That  time  the  Indian  had  no  friend 
On  the  frontier  from  end  to  end, 
His  doomed  day  none  dared  to  fend. 

And  yet  to  be  excepted  was  one  man 
Who  silent  slid  about  the  crowd  to  scan, 
As  if  he  came  from  the  other  side 
So  airily  his  step  would  glide 
Within  and  out  the  throbbing  throng 
To  which  he  could  not  quite  belong; 
He  held  aloof,  but  not  in  hate, 
He  seemed  to  be  a  child  of  fate, 
Some  took  him  as  a  loafer  lazy, 
And  many  said  he  was  half  crazy, 
Though  not  unknown,  he  was  a  stranger, 
Along  the  whole  frontier  a  ranger, 
Flitting  between  the  white  and  red, 
No  blood  he  could  be  brought  to  shed, 
He  would  not  kill  a  snake  or  toad 
E'en  if  it  lay  upon  his  road, 
And  though  his  garments  looked  forlorn, 
His  eye  benignant  traced  no  scorn; 
He  skirted  round  the  cheering  crowd, 
Said  naught  e  'en  to  himself  aloud, 
But  in  his  lank  low-furrowed  face 
No  harbour  held  the  hate  of  race. 
Within  that  town  he  turned  a  dream 
Drowned  in  the  roll  of  drum  and  fife ; 
Yet  of  some  other  world  a  gleam 


FLAG  AND  SWORD.  79 

He  glanced  beyond  the  present  strife. 

On  Lincoln  he  a  look  of  hope  would  dart, 

As  if  he  sought  to  ray  it  to  the  heart 

Of  that  one  chosen  man 

And  all  its  worth  to  him  impart 

As  bearer  of  a  mightier  plan ; 

The  Captain  caught  the  glance  at  last, 

And  recognized  it  well ; 

But  then  it  was  already  past, 

And  spent  the  spirit's  spell; 

It  ran  into  the  ready  air, 

No  one  could  tell  exactly  where. 

II. 

Meanwhile  into  New  Salem 's  center 
The  jolly  joking  soldiers  enter, 
Each  of  them  plays  his  little  pranks, 
Or  quips  the  crowd  out  of  the  ranks ; 
The  girls  too  trip  in  step  along 
Each  had  a  lover  in  the  throng, 
Some  showed  a  welling  tear  in  the  eye, 
They  wanted  both  to  laugh  and  cry. 
"Halt,"  shouted  Lincoln  to  his  band. 
Each  move  of  him  gave  the  command, 
The  soldier  boys  came  to  a  stand. 
The  village  life  flowed  to  one  place, 
It  was  the  little  squared  space 
Where  stood  the  tavern  just  one-storied, 
Which  in  its  fragrant  fire-place  gloried, 
Where  steamed  the  turkey  and  the  pheasant 


gO        CANTO  III— LINCOLN  AT  NEW  SALEM. 

Wreathing  the  room  with  odours  pleasant, 
And  roasted  pig  with  belly  cloven 
Made  music  from  the  old  Dutch  oven. 
James  Butledge  was  the  worthy  host, 
Who  well  might  of  his  lineage  boast ; 
A  Butledge  signed  the  Declaration 
Which  independenced  us  a  nation, 
A  Rutledge  signed  the  Constitution 
Which  voiced  to  us  our  Government, 
In  lofty  words  from  Heaven  sent, 
Of  History's  node  the  last  solution. 
High  up  to  hold  Astrasa  's  beam, 
A  Butledge  was  first  Judge  Supreme 
Of  these  so  young  United  States, 
Appointed  by  George  Washington 
To  balance  justice  'gainst  the  fates 
Which  had  the  nations  hitherto  undone. 
Such  lofty-lined  ancestry 
Lay  hidden  in  that  hostelry, 
Which,  perched  aloft  upon  a  hill, 
Looked  downward  at  a  little  mill, 
Whose  wheel  was  rumbling  with  the  spill 
Of  water  pouring  it  upon 
Out  of  the  singing  Sangamon; 
The  Butledge  mill  had  too  its  fame, 
And  meekly  bore  its  mighty  name, 
A  dam  held  up  the  stream,  small-sized, 
Which  too  our  Lincoln  has  immortalized, 
When  once  he  made  his  laden  boat 
In  triumph  over  the  fall  to  float. 


FLAG  AND  SWORD.  81 

But  look  above  at  the  quadrangle! 

The  crowd  is  surging  in  a  tangle ; 

Into  their  midst  a  cart  is  whirled, 

And  on  it  see  a  flag  unfurled ! 

Lincoln  stands  there  and  peeps  around, 

Not  altogether  satisfied 

Until  a  maiden's  face  is  found, 

And  at  the  tavern's  window  spied — 

The  fact  will  never  be  denied. 

Then  through  his  shape  there  throbs  a  thrill 

So  tense  it  seems  a  heated  chill ; 

Suddenly  his  wan  and  weazen  face 

Kan  full  of  blood  in  a  red  race 

Through  every  furrow  of  its  skin, 

He  scarce  could  hold  himself  within, 

So  fierce  it  fought  there  to  get  out  and  fly — 

T  think  you  know  the  reason  why. 

Hark !  Who  has  mounted  on  the  cart 
And  of  the  speaking  makes  a  start? 
The  schoolmaster  of  the  perched  village, 
The  sower  of  its  mental  tillage ; 
The  crop  grew  fair  in  his  deft  hands, 
Though  stony  sometimes  were  the  lands ; 
He  wielded  well  the  tongue  and  pen, 
For  long  in  use  they  both  had  been, 
Graham  his  name,  his  forename  Mentor, 
Of  all  the  brains  in  town  the  center ; 
Nor  did  he  fail  to  use  the  gad 
When  once  the  boys  had  made  him  mad ; 

6 


g2        CANTO  III— LINCOLN  AT  NEW  SALEM. 

And  e  'en  a  naughty  girl  would  twitch 

Her  hand  aback  beneath  his  switch, 

While  facial  muscles  twisted  in  reply 

Until  a  stubborn  tear  would  globe  the  eye. 

But  pupils  liked  him  all  the  more 

For  flogging  into  them  his  learned  store, 

Which  was  not  small  and  yet  not  great ; 

It  seems  he  did  not  graduate, 

Though  he  had  been  a  while  at  College 

Where  he  picked  up  some  classic  knowledge 

Of  that  fair  storied  time  of  antique  date — 

That  fascinating  fateless  world  of  fate. 

Indeed  he  had  been  long  a  roamer 

Herein  he  too  was  like  old  Homer. 

Greek  fables  of  the  Gods  he  knew, 

And  he  could  tell  of  heroes  too — 

The  wooden  horse  in  tale  of  Troy, 

That  was  his  everlasting  joy, 

Which  to  impart  to  others  there 

Did  seem  to  be  his  heart's  sweet  care, 

Until  the  story  showed  the  wear. 

Sing  it  he  would  if  in  the  mood, 

Lilting  off-hand  in  measure  rude, 

Upon  the  step  would  take  his  perch, 

Twirling  in  hand  a  little  birch 

In  sign  perchance  of  his  high  calling, 

And  to  his  Muse  the  folk  enthralling. 

But  here  upon  the  cart  he  springs, 
His  birch  is  changed  into  a  flag 


FLAG  AND  SWORD.  33 

Which  now  he  flaps  around  zigzag, 

And  thus  a  sort  of  speech  he  sings, 

About  like  that  which  I  am  making  here, 

Falling  in  ups  and  downs  across  the  ear : 

"Abe  Lincoln,  I  believe  in  thee — 

Keep  firm  thy  step  with  destiny ; 

Thou  hast  a  spirit  to  aspire, 

'Tis  in  thee  to  be  mounting  higher, 

I  saw  thee  take  the  stranded  boat 

Over  yonder  dam  and  make  it  float 

In  safety  down  the  troubled  stream; 

A  Captain  then  thou  wert  I  deem, 

And  of  a  far-off  future  gav'st  a  gleam. 

In  thee  I  saw  heroic  mould 

Slipped  through  to  us  from  ages  old, 

Whereof  the  world-long  songs  have  told. 

A  Captain  now  thou  hast  to  be, 

Nor  is  it  thy  last  Captaincy, 

When  of  this  fight  thou  mayst  be  free. 

A  pilot  of  the  ship  of  State, 

When  in  the  very  pinch  of  fate 

It  rolls  unsteady  in  the  storm — 

Methinks  I  see  thy  stalwart  form. 

But  now  this  flag  I  wave  to  thee, 

And  give  it  to  thy  company 

That  they  beneath  its  wavy  blessings  fight, 

And  in  its  stars  see  shining  God's  own  light 

Until  the  niggard  Death 

Refuses  them  more  breath. 

Whoever  be  the  foe  in  sight 


34        CANTO  III— LINCOLN  AT  NEW  SALEM. 

He  is  now  red — he  may  be  white — 

On  land  or  sea — abroad,  at  home — 

All  will  reply :  Just  let  him  come ! 

Whatever  be  the  war, 

It  may  be  near  or  far, 

This  banner  be  your  consecration 

Now  and  forever  to  preserve  the  Nation. ' ' 

"Amen!"  they  in  response  cried  out, 

"Amen,"  was  Lincoln's  thunder  shout, 

Eesounding  over  all  the  rest, 

Though  each  had  yelled  his  very  best. 

It  seemed  to  echo  through  the  West 

Where  prairies  still  keep  the  reverberation 

Rolling  in  answer  to  the  Nation. 

Then  Lincoln  took  the  flag  in  his  own  hand — 

Flag  of  the  worthy  pedagogue 

Whose  soul  felt  a  prophetic  jog — 

Long  arms  outspreading  it  above  his  band, 

He  looked  as  if  he  waved  it  over  all  the  land. 

The  village  inn  they  stood  before, 

A  person  now  stepped  out  its  door, 

And  raised  his  finger  at  the  crowd, 

In  bearing  dignified,  not  proud, 

To  signal  not  to  talk  so  loud, 

As  he  had  something  there  to  say 

Ere  Lincoln  start  upon  his  way. 

It  was  James  Eutledge,  the  first  citizen 

He  would  be  called  by  all  those  men, 

His  neighbors  of  the  blooming  town,     . 


FLAG  AND  SWORD.  85 

Who  gave  to  him  of  civic  worth  the  crown. 

Lofty  and  lordly  in  his  stature, 

He  looked  nobility  of  nature ; 

Of  South  Carolina  he  was  a  son, 

But  quit  that  State  for  a  Northwestern  one, 

For  he  forefelt  the  future  storm, 

It  was  already  there  a  little  warm. 

The  Southern  gentleman  he  did  appear, 

Eetained  the  mien  of  the  cavalier, 

Though  living  on  the  wild  frontier ; 

He  took  delight  in  his  degree, 

And  loved  his  genealogy. 

Now  in  his  hand  he  bore  a  sword 

With  guarded  hilt  and  baldric  fine, 

Burnished  afresh  and  made  to  shine, 

Holding  it  up  he  spoke  a  word 

To  Lincoln,  yet  by  all  was  heard : 

'  *  I  know  you  for  a  noble  youth, 
Honor  is  yours  and  also  truth, 
The  virtues  of  a  valiant  knight 
Belong  to  you  by  own  birthright. 
This  sword  of  my  great  ancestor 
Worn  in  the  Revolutionary  War — 
I  deem  thee  worthy  it  to  wear, 
Since  I  no  longer  can  it  bear, 
As  did  I  twenty  years  ago, 
To  fight  the  Red  and  British  foe 
With  aged  Shelby's  cavalrymen, 
Defying  river,  wood  and  fen ; 


36        CANTO  III— LINCOLN  AT  NEW  SALEM. 

In  fair  Kentucky  lived  I  then. 
But  now  I  love  my  Illinois, 
Its  prairie  free  is  my  first  joy — 
And  may  it  be 
Forever  free! 

Come  daughter,  gird  it  on  this  youth 
To  wield  for  honor  and  for  truth ; 
Lincoln,  ascend  upon  this  stand, 
And  knighted  be  by  lady's  hand!" 

The  lucky  fellow  forward  strode, 
In  every  drop  of  blood  he  glowed, 
At  once  his  face's  fiery  flushes 
Bespoke  his  heart's  volcanic  gushes; 
The  fairest  maid  of  all  the  land 
"Was  to  engird  him  with  a  brand, 
Affixing  it  with  her  own  hand — 
The  flower  of  all  gentleness 
And  daughter  of  the  Kutledges. 
In  troth  a  knightly  virtue  third, 
Besides  the  two  of  which  we've  heard, 
Begins  to  bud  in  Lincoln 's  heart, 
And  makes  it  from  its  chambers  start, 
Until  the  twain  is  felt  as  one, 
By  maiden  is  this  magic  done ! 
A  virtue  new  rays  out  upon  her 
From  him,  as  well  as  truth  and  honor, 
And  seems  to  join  them  from  above, 
That  knightly  virtue  third  is — love. 


THE   SHAKING   OF   THE   SWORD.  37 

III. 

Ann  Eutledge  then  stepped  to  the  front 

With  gracious  look  as  was  her  wont, 

From  father's  grip  the  sword  she  grasped, 

Its  belt  round  Lincoln 's  waist  she  clasped 

Before  the  applauding  multitude 

Who  there  on  eager  tiptoe  stood ; 

And  then  the  rosy  daring  maid 

Drew  from  its  sheath  the  gleaming  blade ; 

She  flashed  it  before  that  little  band 

As  if  they  were  the  entire  land, 

And  read  on  it:  "Man  is  born  free," 

With  voice  of  sweetest  melody 

Jeweled  by  gentle  courtesy. 

She  placed  it  then  in  Lincoln's  hand 

And  every  eye-shot  of  him  scanned; 

His  brawny  knuckles  clutched  the  hilt, 

He  rose  aloft  as  man  new-built, 

Before  whom  Fear  itself  would  wilt ; 

The  blade  he  brandished  back  and  forth, 

He  fiercely  shook  it  toward  the  North 

Where  Black  Hawk  was  supposed  to  be 

Burning  and  slaying  in  savage  glee. 

Then  all  that  band  of  soldiery 

Their  flintlocks  pointed  that  same  way, 

As  if  they  saw  the  Indians  in  a  fray, 

Whom  they  would  start  at  once  to  slay, 

While  two  or  three  excited  ones 

Shot  off  into  the  clouds  their  guns 

At  the  red  specters  of  the  air, 


88         CANTO  III— LINCOLN  AT  NEW  SALEM. 

Now  haunting  in  their  eyesight  everywhere. 
But  Lincoln  by  some  thought  was  stopped, 
His  arm  he  for  a  moment  dropped, 
Then  raised  again  that  written  sword— 
The  sword  of  the  old  Eutledges 
Who  with  it  braved  the  stormiest  stress — 
He  glanced  at  its  engraven  word, 
"Man  is  born  free — 
How  can  that  be?" 
Suddenly  he  whirled  about, 
Southward  his  eye  looked  sharply  out, 
As  if  he  sought  a  little  speck  to  see 
Which  on  the  far  horizon  there  might  be ; 
The  people  wondered  at  his  close  inspection, 
And  turned  their  faces  in  that  same  direction. 
When  up  he  whisked  his  sword  again 
And  smote  the  wind  with  might  and  main ; 
In  both  his  hands  he  took  the  blade, 
And  e'en  a  lurch  south-east  he  made 
As  if  he  sought  a  foe  to  smite 
In  the  hottest  sort  of  fight. 
What  image  sees  he  on  the  air? 
Surely  no  Indian  stands  out  there; 
All  wheeled  around  in  order  to  descry 
What  seemed  to  threaten  Lincoln's  eye 
Upon  that  part  of  sky. 

But  naught  they  saw,  and  more  than  ever  won- 
dered, 

When  out  the  crowd  a  voice  like  Stentor's 
thundered : 


THE    SHAKING    OF    THE    SWORD.  39 

" Shake  it  again  and  do  it  double; 

Shake  it  at  Calhoun  who  made  the  trouble ! ' ' 

Then  all  the  men  in  chorus  cried, 

Into  one  shout  now  unified 

Which  swelled  up  to  a  universal  will — 

Even  the  women  could  not  keep  still : 

1 '  Shake  it  again  and  then  once  more ! ' ' 

That  shout  the  very  welkin  tore 

To  streaming  shreds  of  far-off  roar: 

' 'At  South  Carolina  strike  a  blow, 

What  was  your  meaning  now  we  know." 

Then  Lincoln  gave  a  fiercer  lunge, 

As  if  from  platform  he  might  plunge 

Afar  into  some  future  Ocean, 

Whereof  he  caught  a  dreamy  notion ; 

He  stood  erect  yet  held  the  sword, 

Sword  of  the  Rutledges,  the  same 

Which  once  from  South  Carolina  came ; 

Full  solemnly  he  spoke  a  word : 

' '  If  it  should  ever  happen,  the  great  defection, 

We  '11  have  to  march  in  the  other  direction. 

God  save  our  band  from  such  a  task ! 

And  yet  my  mind  bids  me  to  ask 

Have  you  already  that  intent 

If  called  for  by  the  President!" 

The  thunder  voice  again  up  went, 

As  if  from  one  big  windpipe  sent 

Up  to  the  top  tip  of  the  firmament : 

''We'll  go,  and  Lincoln  shall  the  Captain  be, 

The  only  man  for  Captaincy!" 


90        CANTO  III— LINCOLN  AT  NEW  SALEM. 

' <  That  point  we  need  not  yet  decide, 
I  hope  we  never  may," 
The  Captain  modestly  replied : 
'  *  But  let  us  not  forget  to-day ; 
Another  duty  we  have  now  to  do, 
That  is  what  first  we  must  get  through, 
Though  we  are  made  of  the  best  stuff, 
One  war  at  a  time — that  is  enough." 

So  Lincoln  shook  at  Carolina  proud 
That  Revolutionary  sword, 
And  sharped  its  point  with  the  right  word, 
Whereat  the  overflowing  crowd 
Applauded  to  the  dome  the  act 
Which  seemed  a  forecast  of  the  fact. 
The  waves  of  sound  rolled  heaven-high, 
And  with  it  rose  the  people  up  the  sky, 
Who  soon  would  sink  into  a  silent  vale 
Between  the  surges  of  the  soulful  gale. 
Then  next  that  shoutless  moment's  chasm 
Burst  up  with  new  enthusiasm. 

But  see !  James  Butledge  stands  once  more 
Upon  the  platform  at  his  door, 
He  seems  more  lofty  in  his  whole  being, 
His  eyes  flash  sparkles  in  their  seeing, 
A  crimson  burns  along  his  cheeks 
As  he  in  prophet's  rapture  speaks : 
"The  sword  of  the  great  Rutledges 
With  all  its  bright  appendages — 


THE    SHAKING   OF    THE    SWORD.  gj 

More  noble  than  Excalibar 

"Which  shone  as  Arthur's  very  star, 

And  cut  his  way  in  every  war ; 

Mightier  than  Durandal, 

The  most  romantic  sword  of  all, 

Which  Eoland  bore  with  Charlemain, 

Cleaving  the  Pyrenees  atwain ; 

Sword  of  the  rending  Revolution, 

Sword  of  the  healing  Constitution — 

The  Butledge  name  is  writ  on  both 

With  a  sword's  point,  backed  by  God's  oath. 

Now,  Lincoln,  thou  art  girded  with  the  same 

And  thou  wilt  give  it  a  still  higher  fame, 

Wilt  make  it  gleam  with  a  far  greater  glory 

Than  all  the  fabled  swords  of  knightly  story." 

So  said  the  Kutledge  of  the  West 

Who  always  did  his  patriotic  best ; 

His  dignity  had  not  a  flaw, 

His  chivalry  obeyed  the  law 

Disdaining  all  unchecked  defiance, 

His  character  was  writ  reliance. 

But  now  he  could  hurrah  with  zest 
And  let  a  laugh  loose  with  the  rest, 
Could  e'en  unlock  a  little  jest. 
But  aye  the  daughter,  rosy  Ann, 
She  was  the  one  for  whom  each  man, 
And  woman  too,  not  jealousied, 
His  own  dear  self  in  love  outran, 
Whatever  way  she  was  espied. 


92        CANTO  HI— LINCOLN  AT  NEW  SALEM. 

All  had  her  chosen,  there  was  no  doubt, 
The  secret  everywhere  came  out, 
But  whom  the  maiden  fair  would  choose, 
All  still  were  looking  for  the  news. 
She  seemed  at  Lincoln  not  affrighted, 
But  with  his  warlike  trappings  quite  delighted 
And   on   the   hero    smiled    whom   she   had 
knighted. 

But  here  comes  Uncle  Jimmy  Short 
With  smileful  easy-going  port, 
Of  man  he  looked  the  generous  sort ; 
He  sat  upon  his  horse  so  globular 
That  he  did  seem  to  roll  along  its  back 
As  he  leaped  down  without  a  jar, 
And  held  it  prancing  in  its  track. 
A  farmer  living  some  miles  out 
Was  Uncle  Jimmy  when  at  home ; 
And  now  from  Sand  Kidge  he  had  come, 
As  soon  as  he  had  heard  about 
Lincoln's  good  luck,  ancl  brought  a  steed 
Saddled  and  bridled  just  to  Abe's  need. 
"Here,  lad,"  he  cried,  "take  my  best  nag, 
I  shall  not  of  his  mettle  brag, 
But  backed  on  him  you  will  not  lag. 
At  sight  of  you  bay  Speedwell  prances, 
And  neighs  to  take  with  you  the  chances 
Of  the  curst  redskin's  ruthless  rifle, 
His  horse-talk  fierce  you  cannot  stifle. 
Captain,  now  leap  into  this  saddle 


THE    SHAKING    OF    THE    SWORD.  93 

To  show  how  you  may  look  a-straddle ; 
I  want  to  see  your  long  thin  shanks 
Dangle  far  down  the  horse 's  flanks, 
And  when  you  grip  in  hand  his  bridle, 
You  must  not  think  of  being  idle ; 
Your  foot  doth  bulk  a  little  bit, 
But  in  this  stirrup  it  will  fit. 
See  the  dear  fellow's  rolling  mane! 
There !  he  whinnies  for  you  once  again ; 
Now  mount!  let's  see  how  well  you  sit, 
And  what  boy  Speedwell  says  to  it ; 
He'll  make  a  war-speech,  I'll  bet  a  dollar, 
Hark !  already  he  begins  to  holler. ' ' 
Then  Lincoln's  look  did  kindly  bend 
And  speak  unto  his  all-round  friend: 
' '  Dear  Uncle  Jimmy,  some  voice  you  heeded 
Which  told  yx)u  just  what  I  most  needed ; 
But  wait !    I  have  aught  first  to  do, 
One  minute  more  I  shall  be  through. ' ' 

Lincoln  had  glimpsed  a  furrowed  face 
Which  gleamed  across  that  crowded  space, 
And  thence  beshone  him  with  its  grace 
Of  pure  maternal  sheen, 
Transfigured  like  to  Heaven's  queen. 
Who  is  it  gently  pushing  through  the  street 
Centerwards,  where  her  idol  she  would  meet  ? 
Ah  Mother  Sallie  Lincoln  hastes  to  greet 
The  youth  she  loves  as  her  salvation, 
Although  a  step-child  is  the  relation 


94        CANTO  HI— LINCOLN  AT  NEW  SALEM 

Between  the  mother  and  the  son — 
Two  souls  transmuted  into  one, 
A  kinship  deeper  than  of  blood 
Inspires  her  holy  motherhood. 
A  little  gift  sHe  also  bears, 
And  holds  it  out  with  trickling  tears : 
A  pair  of  stockings  she  has  knitted, 
'Twas  all  her  poverty  permitted, 
The  yarn  with  her  own  hand  she  spun 
On  spindle  of  her  spinning  wheel, 
And  then  she  wound  it  on  her  reel, 
From  sun-up  to  the  setting  sun, 
Until  her  happy-making  work  was  done. 
With  every  turn  of  her  deft  fingers 
Over  the  lad  her  feeling  lingers, 
Every  loup  had  in  it  a  good  thought 
As  she  with  knitting-needle  wrought ; 
Sometimes  she  would  a  stitch  let  drop, 
Or  e'en  in  meditation  stop ; 
Nay,  she  would  fall  asleep  and  dream 
What  might  his  coming  life  beseem, 
And  of  it  caught  she  many  a  gleam 
Escaping  from  Time's  formless  deep, 
Despite  the  "future's  bolted  keep. 

From  Little  Goose  Neck  Prairie  all  the  way 
She  came,  arriving  just  that  day 
In  time  to  see  the  triumph  of  her  boy, 
Which  made  her  heart  walls  thump  with  joy. 
And  yet  her  hope  had  one  alloy, 


THE    SHAKING    OF    THE    SWORD.  95 

She  felt  some  lurking  counterstroke 

Whose  pang  anxiety  awoke, 

Starting  a  far  presentiment 

Which  she  could  never  quite  prevent 

Despite  her  intellect's  dissent. 

And  as  her  work  she  handed  fearful 

She  spake  to  him  in  accents  tearful : 

"I  do  not  like  to  see  you  go  to  war, 

My  Abe,  my  spirit's  son, 

Your  life  in  mine  is  spun ; 

A  cloud  is  hung  across  your  star 

Just  where  it  shines  above 

With  everybody's  love. 

My  heart  bespeaks  some  day  you  will  be  slain, 

I  feel  a  bullet  crashing  through  your  brain, 

Oft  have  you  said  to  me  the  same, 

Presaging  it  as  an  ancestral  trait ; 

Your  father's  father  had  that  fate, 

From  whom  you  take  your  name, 

And  also  take  your  doom 

Which  sends  you  to  the  tomb ; 

The  image  of  that  little  drop  of  lead 

How  much  it  makes  me  dread ! 

That  time  may  still  be  far  away 

Or  yet  to-day; 

Farewell  I  must  endure  the  pain — 

Abe  I  may  never  see  again. ' ' 

With  one  embrace  she  turned  aside 

Her  tear- wet  face  to  hide ; 

To  soothe  her  sorrow  Lincoln  sought 


96       CANTO  HI—LINCOLN  AT  NEW  SALEM. 

And  playful  gave  to  her  this  thought, 

1  *  Nay,  mother,  I  am  good  for  many  years, 

Of  flesh  and  blood  I  am  still  made, 

I  do  not  look  much  like  a  shade, 

Here  on  your  apron  dry  your  tears. ' ' 

And  yet  she  touched  with  her  dread  word 

In  Lincoln's  soul  a  quivering  chord, 

Responsive  to  his  deep  foreboding  bent : 

But  now  another  task  was  sent ; 

A  mutual  smile  each  smiled  at  any  rate, 

Though  both  forefelt  the  stir  of  fate, 

And  both  seemed  minded  in  a  common  tether 

So  that  they  always  thought  together. 

IV. 

But  now  the  twain  of  single  soul 

The  time  will  tear  apart ; 

Each  must  pursue  a  separate  goal, 

Already  they  have  made  a  start ; 

The  one  has  still  to  keep  her  home, 

The  other  in  the  world  must  roam. 

Between  them  surged  the  crowd 

With  acclamations  loud, 

Bringing  the  village  rhymer  too, 

Whom  Lincoln  also  knew. 

1  i  A  new  man  for  our  company, ' ' 

The  shout  arose  in  boisterous  glee ; 

"Here  comes  the  merry  man  Jack  Kelso, 

Of  all  the  town  he's  the  good  fellow!" 

Then  spoke  to  Abe  a  single  voice 


THE    VILLAGE   RHYMER.  Cfl 

Yelling  above  the  buzzing  noise : 

"  Jack  Kelso  wishes  to  enlist, 

And  bring  along  his  jolly  grist 

Of  songs  and  ballads  and  old  rhymes, 

Which  will  amuse  us  at  odd  times, 

And  even  'twill  console  us  dying 

If  we  can  hear  him  versifying. 

The  fiddle  too  he  gaily  brings, 

Can  pour  his  soul  into  the  strings, 

And  to  his  tunes  will  make  us  dance 

Even  our  nags  will  have  to  prance. 

In  all  the  "West  he  is  the  champion  sp  outer 

Of  Shakespeare  and  of  Bobbie  Burns ; 

Of  Indians  he  will  be  the  mighty  router 

Shooting  verses  at  them  of  all  turns ; 

And  cunning  lines  he  has  of  his  own  make, 

Which  he  will  not  forsake ; 

Of  love  he  knows  the  very  tune, 

Some  of  us  boys  will  need  him  soon. 

Now  Captain  Lincoln,  him  enroll 

As  prairie  poet  on  thy  scroll, 

And  f ellowed  deeply  with  thy  soul. ' ' 

"I'll  do  it,"  says  Abe,  "to  round  our  plan 

He  comes  in  time  the  very  man ; 

Our  outfit  now  will  be  complete, 

The  enemy  we'll  gaily  meet, 

And  serve  him  with  a  grand  defeat; 

And  then  to  cap  the  glorious  deed 

A  song  of  triumph  will  be  our  meed." 

So  Lincoln  spoke,  the  name  inscribed, 


98        CANTO  III— LINCOLN  AT  NEW  SALEM. 

Whereat  the  poet  a  swig  of  grog  imbibed. 
For  Jack's  loved  Muse  had  a  Bacchic  vein, 
And  the  corn-god  too  could  inspire  his  strain. 

But  say,  who  was  this  happy  Jack, 

Who  had  such  strange  melodious  knack? 

The  village  vagabond  he  must  be  called, 

The  Muses  sweet  had  him  enthralled, 

So  that  he  could  not  work  for  bread, 

And  hardly  knew  where  he  might  rest  his 

head; 

Yet  him  the  people  liked  and  fed, 
Though  they  despised  him  and  his  verses, 
And  would  sometimes  hurl  at  him  curses. 
Jack  too  had  been  a  far-off  roamer, 
American  descendant  of  old  Homer. 
Wanderer  shiftless 
Made  singer  thriftless. 
Abe  liked  this  entertaining  Jack, 
Would  slap  him  freely  on  the  back, 
And  grade  his  friendship  by  the  thwack. 
Both  loved  along  the  sunny  Sangamon  to  laze 
And  pass  in  poetry  their  summer  days ; 
With  hook  and  line  Abe  soon  would  find  him 

louting, 

And  start  him  on  the  bank  to  spouting 
The  rhymes  of  the  great  bards  well-known, 
And  then  he  added  verses  of  his  own. 
To  Captain  Lincoln  Jack  drew  near, 
And  spoke  to  him  that  all  might  hear : 


THE    VILLAGE   RHYMER.  99 

"Captain,  I  wish  to  take  with  you  this  walk, 

And  spout  Will  Shakespeare  at  Black  Hawk, 

If  he  does  not  give  up,  then  in  addition 

I  have  some  other  rhymed  ammunition 

Which  I  can  draw  from  out  my  pouch — 

In  shooting  versicles  I  am  no  slouch ; 

You  ought  to  know  my  talent  well 

On  you  I  oft  have  tried  its  spell ; 

I  feel  you  have  for  me  been  wishing, 

Again  we  shall  now  go  a-fishing, 

And  with  my  rhymes  you  cannot  help  but 

catch 
Of  savage  redskins  the  whole  batch." 

The  Captain's  hand  gave  one  huge  reach, 
And  clasped  Jack  Kelso  for  his  speech; 
The  soldiers  all  in  chorus  shouted, 
As  Lincoln  roared : l '  We  never  shall  be  routed 
By  those  infernal  mullygrubs, 
Which  give  to  life  the  hardest  rubs ; 
For  Jack  will  put  to  flight  the  dumps, 
Which  more  than  Indians  give  us  thumps, 
When  the  campaign  may  drag  on  dreary, 
And  with  flat  prairies  we  are  weary, 
The  shout  will  rise  as  if  from  night 
At  peeping  of  the  light : 
Here  Kelso  comes — now  we  are  cheery." 
Naught  could  the  soldiers  better  please, 
Since  Jack  and  Abe  with  tales  and  spouting 
bees 


100     CANTO  HI— LINCOLN  AT  NEW  SALEM. 

Would  make  in  camp  some  lively  fun 

And  start  the  heavy  hour-glass  on  a  run. 

Jack  Kelso's  name  was  then  writ  down; 

Of  all  the  men  who  lived  in  town 

He  was  the  one  whom  Abe  was  thinking  over, 

And  longing  for  a  rhymer  and  a  lover 

To  calm  the  agitated  heart 

With  strains  of  soothing  art, 

Which  no  one  else  was  able  to  impart. 

The  roses  white  and  red  were  sung  with  might 
In  those  old  Shakespeare  times, 
But  now  it  is  the  redskin  and  the  white 
Which  must  exploited  be  in  rhymes ; 
And  so  Jack  Kelso  hies  him  to  the  front 
With  backwoods  verses  broad  and  blunt, 
And  challenges  Will  Shakespeare's  poem, 
As  rhyming  wrestler  tries  to  throw  him. 

V. 

With  this  last  man  enlisted 
The  company  feels  itself  full-fisted, 
Till  now  there  seemed  some  lack, 
The  gap  is  filled  by  rhyming  Jack. 
Who  never  fails  to  show  his  knack. 
Then  all  the  soldiers  start  to  say 
"Up,  off — let  us  no  longer  stay, 
Though  it  be  hard  to  break  away." 
The  Captain  gives  the  quick  command, 


\ 


THE   DEPARTURE.  101 

At  once  they  step — the  entire  band — 

And  all  New  Salem  marches  after, 

Women  and  men  with  teary  looks  and  laugh- 
ter. 

Still  old  Tom  Cunes  strode  at  their  head, 

Blowing  his  fife  he  stiffly  stepped, 

Nodding  his  poll  the  time  he  kept 

With  Captain  Lincoln's  tread, 

Who  all  the  people  led. 

The  fiery  fifer  fifed  himself  so  red 

That  his  fat  jowl  seemed  gushing  blood, 

Washing  his  face  in  crimson  flood ; 

Fifing  his  blast  at  big  Black  Hawk 

Aye  but  he  made  his  whistle  talk ! 

The  drummer  drummed  his  drum  with  all  his 
might, 

His  big-thewed  arm  he  slung  as  in  a  fight, 

Whirling  his  drum-stick  balled 

As  if  a  log  he  mauled. 

The  people  trod  to  that  one  sound, 

Their  common  footstep  shook  the  ground, 

Reverberating  everywhere  around. 

The  little  snare-drum  snarled  between 

Grumbling  its  rat-a-tat-a-teen, 

Pelting  away  in  petty  pother, 

As  ever  scolding  its  big  drum  brother 

In  gnarly  nasal  drawl 

Which  made  the  epidermis  crawl. 

And  so  they  strode  that  orchestra, 

With  its  triumphant  artists  three, 


102      CANTO  III— LINCOLN  AT  NEW  SALEM. 

Making  of  sounds  a  mighty  murderous  play 

As  if  the  Indians  thence  to  slay, 

To  which  the  people's  hearts  agree. 

The  very  dome  of  Heaven  echoed  aboon 

With  Old  Dan  Tucker  for  a  tune. 

This  ended,  Tom  turned  on  his  heel, 

But  in  the  act  against  a  wagon  wheel 

He  struck  by  chance  and  broke  his  darling 

fife- 
That  seemed  to  take  away  his  life 
A  moment,  till  again  upright  he  stood, 
When  he  picked  up  the  leaden  nib  still  good. 
But  where  they  passed  the  village  bound, 
The  Captain  stopped  and  looked  around; 
His  stalwart  arm  he  did  upreach 
And  then  he  made  a  little  speech, 
Just  at  the  grove  of  Hickory 
Still  famed  as  Jackson 's  tree : 
' '  Here,  0  friends,  we  have  to  part, 
Although  it  wrenches  every  heart, 
Henceforth  we  must  be  going  faster ; 
Say  your  last  prayer,  my  good   Schoolmas- 
ter." 

Then  Mentor  Graham  stood  before  the  boys 
And  throbbed  a  word  in  broken  voice, 
He  folded  round  his  heart  that  flag, 
Caressing  it,  * '  Good-bye,  old  rag, 
More  I  cannot  speechify, 
My  eyes  will  not  keep  dry, 
I  must  not  show  to  you  the  tears, 


THE    DEPARTURE.  103 

"Which  I  have  often  trounced  from  you,  my 

dears; 

And  more  of  that  I  still  must  do 
For  sake  of  all  those  after  you ; 
And  though  I  be  not  now  in  school, 
I  shall  not  play  the  sentimental  fool. ' ' 
Whereat  the  apple  in  his  throat 
Pushed  up  and  blocked  the  gushing  note, 
Just  then  he  slipped  off  to  one  side 
And  secretly  his  eyes  he  dried. 

Next  smiling  Uncle  Jimmy  came 
Who  always  leveled  up  the  same, 
In  weal  or  woe,  in  bliss  or  bane, 
He  never  failed  to  light  on  top  again ; 
Spoke  he,  now  fondling  Speedwell 's  mane : 
'  *  Good-by,  my  favorite  faithful  nag, 
Follow  bravely  Lincoln  and  the  flag, 
Bring  him  in  safety  back  to  our  New  Salem, 
With  a  grand  jubilee  again  we'll  hail  him." 

When  Uncle  Jimmy  Short  had  spoken 

The  Captain   had  no  time   his   gratitude  to 

token ; 

The  Rutledges  were  standing  there — 
Just  there  before  his  look 
And  every  thought  of  his  a  captive  took. 
The  father  with  his  lordly  classic  air, 
The  daughter  with  the  sunbeams  tangled  in 

her  hair 
And  rosebuds  blushing  in  her  face 


1Q4      CANTO  IIIr-LINCOLN  AT  NEW  SALEM. 

Which  dropped  in  every  eye  their  grace, 

And  shot  in  every  heart  a  tiny  shaft 

Of  maiden  love  all  innocent  of  craft, 

Whereof  Abe  Lincoln  took  the  deepest  draft. 

As  soon  as  those  two  shapes  he  scanned, 

In  hope  his  soaring  spirit  planned 

To  draw  that  famed  ancestral  sword 

Which  dangled  dazzling  at  his  side, 

As  if  it  too  felt  some  old  pride 

In  lofty  Lincoln,  its  new  lord, 

Who  spoke  to  them  a  stalwart  word : 

"This  falchion's  edge  unsheathe  I  now, 

By  it  I  lip  my  holiest  vow; 

This  burning  blade  I  deem  a  loan, 

Which  I  shall  bring  back  to  its  own ; 

When  I  return  from  my  long  ride 

You  still  shall  see  it  gleaming  at  my  side — 

Dear  sword,  thy  sunbeams  from  on  high 

Flash  back  their  sparkles  to  mine  eye ; 

When  I  thy  laughing  face  uncover, 

I  feel  myself,  I  swear,  to  be  thy  lover, 

Who  shall  be  true  to  thee  till  death, 

Shall  grip. thee  fond  at  my  last  breath." 

Three  cheers  for  the  keen  Butledge  sword ! 

All  took  a  shouting  spell; 

Three  cheers  for  Lincoln's  keener  word! 

They  bettered  e'en  their  yell. 

Now  blooming  Ann,  at  what  she  heard, 

Seemed  with  some  inner  forecast  stirred, 

As  if  in  rivalry  with  that  bright  sword 

Her  face  its  beaming  treasures  poured, 


THE    DEPARTURE.  105 

Until  the  day  itself  was  all  outshone, 
And  on  the  earth  had  risen  a  new  sun, 
Which  never  sets  when  it  has  once  begun. 

But  who  is  this  that,  leaning  on  her  cane, 

Doth  interweave  her  voice  into  this  strain 

Of  tender  thought,  between  the  twain? 

A  form  beloved  steps  up  again, 

Her  mien  has  changed  to  looking  merry, 

Hearken!  she  speaks!  'tis  Mother  Sally 

Of  Little  Goose  Neck  Prairie ; 

Her  furrowed  cheeks  run  full  of  pleasure, 

Rainfalls  of  joy  pour  down  their  treasure, 

In  glowing  glances  she  seems  to  rally 

From  that  first  dread  presentiment ; 

Illumed  of  look  she  tells  her  new  content : 

'  *  My  Abe,  you  now  may  go  to  war, 

The  cloud  no  longer  veils  your  star, 

It  peeps  out  at  me  like  a  child  in  play, 

And  twinkles  in  my  eye  a  laughing  ray ; 

You  will  come  back  this  time,  I  see, 

The  next  time,  ah !  but  let  that  be, 

And  take  the  blessing  of  to-day. 

Thy  love  must  go  out  to  another, 

But  thou  shalt  not  forget  thy  mother ; 

My  darling  boy,  again  good-bye, 

To  thee  I  feel  I  shall  be  nigh, 

My  cabin  bedside  I  shall  nightly  knee, 

My  prayer  shall  thy  guardian  angel  be." 

With  quivering  lips  the  Captain  fluttered, 

And  though  he  tried  to  talk, 


106      CANTO  HI— LINCOLN  AT  NEW  SALEM. 

At  every  syllable  his  tongue  would  balk, 
Till  gathering  up  himself  he  stoutly  stuttered : 
'  *  Forward,  Company :  —  Good-bye ' ' — 

The  pensive  village  folk  turn  back, 
The  volunteers  keep  on  their  forward  track, 
Streaming  the  road  with  gayety, 
Though  they  no  longer  home  can  see. 
But  Lincoln  dared  just  once  look  round, 
He  saw  a  maiden  glance  upon  the  ground, 
Showing  a  redder-lidded  eye 
As  though  she,  if  alone,  would  like  to  cry. 

Oh,  Lincoln,  what  means  this  deep  unrest ! 

Two  loves  are  surging  in  thy  breast, 

As  thou  dost  stride  along  the  road, 

Foref eeling  what  it  may  forebode ; 

An  inner  war  is  thy  new  test, 

A  double  heart  with  double  hest; 

One  love  thou  hast,  most  tender,  for  thy 
mother, 

The  other  love  is  thine  just  for  the  other, 

"Who  stirs  the  fiercer  farther  quest 

And  cannot  let  the  future  rest ; 

For  it  will  never  leave  thee — never — 

Its  presence  will  now  dwell  with  thine  for- 
ever, 

Thy  soul's  one  guest  has  come  to  stay 

Until  thy  judgment  day; 

And  then — and  then — 

Enough — Amen . 


Canto  Jf ourtfj. 


BLACK  HAWK  AND  KEOKUK. 
L 

"Yes,  I  am  going  back  again 

To  my  forefathers'  graves, 

Which  can  be  now  seen  only  in  the  waves 

Which  ripple  the  white  man's  growing  grain 

Along  Rock  River's  shore; 

They  are  already  leveled  o'er 

By  plow  and  soon  will  be  no  more. 

Tribesmen,  help  me  avenge  that  wrong ! 

How  many  here  will  go  along  ? ' ' 

So  spake  in  council  bold  Black  Hawk 

Who  hissed  a  serpent  in  his  talk, 

A  coiled  poisonous  rattlesnake, 

Ready  ever  a  spring  to  make, 

And  head  with  venomed  fang  to  rear 

(107) 


108    CANTO    IV— BLACK    HAWK   AND    KEOKUK. 

Against  the  pale-faced  pioneer. 

This  council  looked  upon  the  Iowa 

Along  whose  banks  the  Sauks  and  Foxes  lay 

Smoking  their  fated  pipe  of  peace, 

Yet  somehow  troubled  with  their  ease. 

Two  tribes  they  were,  well  mated, 

Long  had  they  been  confederated, 

And  showed  that  red  men  of  the  forest  might 

In  their  own  social  forms  unite, 

Renouncing  their  fierce  tribal  hate 

And  founding  e'en  an  Indian  State, 

"Which  would  them  all  associate. 

So  the  twin  tribes,  the  Foxes  and  the  Sauks, 

Have  laid  aside  their  tomahawks 

To  wage  a  little  war  of  talks. 

To  council  all  the  men  had  come, 

It  was  a  glowering  set  and  glum, 

They  crouched  in  rows  and  all  were  mum, 

Excepting  two  big  tongue-tips  never  dumb, 

Those  of  Black  Hawk  and  Keokuk, 

Who  spoke  as  if  they  were  an  Indian  book. 

Again  to  rattle  began  Black  Hawk 

Spraying  on  all  his  venomed  talk 

And  brandishing  his  tonguey  tomahawk: 

"The  white  skin  may  it  be  accursed! 

I  hate  it  last,  I  hate  it  first; 

To  me  and  mine  it  is  the  worst 

Of  all  the  ills  sent  down  by  Manito, 

From  his  great  sea  of  woe, 

As  if  our  world  to  overthrow. 


THE    INDIAN    COUNCIL. 


Till  I,  the  red,  shall  redden  it 

My  warfare  shall  I  never  quit; 

That  body  in  its  gore  I'll  tan, 

And  make  it  like  an  Indian, 

The  white  may  then  become  a  man. 

The  color  of  his  skin  means  ever  battle 

Till  one  of  us  be  dead; 

Which  one  shall  hear  the  other's  dying  rat- 

tle? 

I  swear,  it  shall  not  be  the  red. 
I  long  to  wash  these  silver  faces 
In  bubbling  fountains  of  their  blood, 
And  end  this  conflict  of  the  races 
By  wiping  out  the  hellish  brood.  '  ' 
Just  as  he  stopped  his  furious  talk, 
He  raised  aloft  his  tomahawk 
And  flung  it  forth  with  all  his  might 
Eastward,  as  if  he  sought  to  fight  ' 
A  foe  in  that  direction  lying, 
Whom  thus  he  fiercely  was  defying, 
And  at  the  act  the  warlike  group 
Of  redskins  gave  a  mighty  whoop, 
And  sprang  like  panthers  from  their  lair, 
Will  on  the  war-path  start  just  there. 

Amid  the  tumult  of  that  boist'rous  band 
Gesturing  silence  with  his  hand, 
Uprose  the  Indian's  greatest  orator 
WTio  would  divert  his  people  from  the  war, 
Which  meant  destruction  to  them  all, 
If  they  should  follow  Black  Hawk's  call 


CANTO  IV—  BLACK  HAWK  AND  KEOKUK. 


To  face  about  and  then  turn  back, 

Reversing  their  old  westward  track. 

He  bore  the  name  of  Keokuk 

His  speech  was  gifted  with  good-luck 

For  all  his  folk  when  in  distress, 

And  every  soul  it  seemed  to  bless. 

The  red  man's  racial  hate 

He  tried  to  mitigate, 

He  saw  in  it  the  brand  of  fate 

Upon  each  Indian  of  the  land. 

So  now  he  would  Black  Hawk  withstand, 

And  stay  the  vengeful  hand 

Which  would  be  certain  to  invoke 

Eetribution  on  his  folk. 

Of  Indian  wisdom  he  was  the  voice, 

Of  all  his  race  he  rose  the  choice  ; 

Their  greatest  man  was  Keokuk, 

The  sage  whom  Black  Hawk  could  not  brook, 

Envious  from  whisper  of  ambition, 

And  opposite  in  disposition. 

Both  tribes,  the  Foxes  and  the  Sauks  allied 

Made  Keokuk  their  chief  in  pride, 

E'en  if  a  party  was  dissatisfied  — 

Black  Hawk  and  those  who  took  his  side, 

Who  now  had  roused  the  frenzied  thrill 

Which  coursed  in  every  Indian's  blood. 

But  all  were  of  a  sudden  still 

When  Keokuk  before  them  stood, 

He  looked  a  moment  far  away, 

And  then  began  to  say: 


THE    INDIAN    COUNCIL. 

"Hear  the  Great  Spirit  first, 
And  to  him  pray 

Ere  we  are  borne  down  to  the  worst 
And  vanish  from  the  day. 
His  hand  has  led  the  white  men  here 
And  makes  them  stronger  every  year; 
Their  arms  will  slay  us  if  we  fight, 
Although  we  think  we  have  the  right; 
Oft  have  we  tried  to  stop  their  way 
And  always  had  the  debt  to  pay; 
The  one  great  fact  we  must  descry: 
Be  it  for  us  to  live  or  die, 
The  whites  are  here  to  stay, 
Until  the  Judgment  day.'* 
Sad  was  the  voice  of  Keokuk, 
More  grave  became  the  chieftain's  look, 
He  knew  he  had  to  touch  a  strain 
Which  would  to  many  friends  give  pain, 
But  his  dear  people's  welfare  stirred 
His  heart  to  speak  the  fateful  word: 
"We  have  to  change  our  way  of  life, 
If  we  would  ban  the  cause  of  strife 
Between  the  red  man  and  the  white : 
For  us  it  is  a  losing  fight 
And  ever  has  been  till  to-day, 
To-morrow  looks  the  self-same  way. 
Our  customs  long  ingrown  we  must  undo, 
Else  we  shall  not  pull  through; 
Methinks  our  very  soul 
We  must  somehow  unroll 


CANTO  IV—  BLACK  HAWK  AND  KEOKDE. 


And  overwork  it  new; 
Like  his  our  village  we  must  make, 
Divide  the  land  that  each  one  take 
His  portion,  to  be  his  alone, 
Which  he  will  till  and  own. 
Methinks  I  see  my  Indian 
Becoming  thus  another  man, 
Uprising  till  he  builds  a  mighty  State 
And  so  defies  the  blow  of  Fate." 

So  spake  Chief  Keokuk  the  sage, 

The  wisest  red  man  of  his  age  ; 

He  hoped  to  save  his  dying  race 

By  bringing  them  to  take  their  place 

In  the  new  order  of  the  world, 

And  not  beneath  its  wheels  be  whirled. 

Alas!  his  wisdom  soared  above  his  tribe, 

They  could  not  grasp  his  lofty  word, 

Although  its  sounds  they  heard, 

Its  meaning  they  could  not  imbibe. 

They  were  unable  from  their  birth 

To  see  what  swept  them  off  the  earth, 

They  could  not  change  their  institution 

Without  an  instant  dissolution; 

He  voiced  the  hest  of  the  Great  Spirit, 

But  not  a  Redskin  there  could  hear  it, 

Gave  but  a  grunt  or  mumble 

While  Black  Hawk's  band  sneered  out  an 

ugly  grumble. 
Sage  Keokuk  waved  silence,  being  chief, 


THE  DEBATE. 

He  knew  the  way  to  give  relief 
To  the  upheaving  savage  heart, 
Through  charm  of  Indian  art; 
And  so  he  called  for  a  folk-tale, 
The  wanderings  o'er  hill  and  dale 
Through  which  his  tribe  had  had  to  roam, 
Ere  they  could  reach  their  present  home. 

n. 

A  woman  was  the  keeper  of  this  store, 

Long  known  as  teller  of  her  people's  lore, 

Which  she  preserved  well  memorized 

Without  the  aid  of  print  or  letters  civilized, 

And  in  it  many  a  lesson  brought 

To  savage  minds,  not  to  be  taught 

In  any  other  school  of  man 

A  little  foreview  of  God's  plan. 

That  woman  knew  her  Indians  well, 

And  could  their  soul's  own  story  tell 

In  their  long  fateful  wandering, 

E'en  could  it  in  rude  measures  sing; 

She  gave  her  head  a  little  tilt, 

And  to  her  words  a  swaying  lilt: 

"Far  up  in  Canada  we  Sauks  once  dwelt, 

When  from  above  a  push  we  felt, 

And  that  was  long,  ah!  long  ago, 

It  is  the  first  of  us  I  know; 

From  that  far  land,  our  earliest  home, 

Westward  the  Sauks  were  forced  to  roam, 

7 


IV—  BLACK   HAWK   AND    KEOKUK. 


Fleeing  the  Whites,  and  Indians,  too, 
Till  countries  vast  we  wandered  through 
With  all  fheir  swamps  and  running  streams, 
And  passed  high  mountains  iced  in  sunny 

gleams  ; 

Wandering  ever,  ever  forth 
We  crossed  great  lakes  set  in  the  North, 
Until  we  in  Wisconsin  landed, 
With  kindred  Foxes  there  we  banded, 
And  formed  a  single  Indian  nation, 
Staying  the  same  in  all  migration. 
In  time  we  started  on  our  way  once  more, 
Thence  to  the  milder  South  we  bore, 
And  drove  the  Redskins  all  before. 
Again  we  raised  the  furious  battle-cry, 
We  fought  and  slew  the  native  Ulini, 
So  that  of  thousands  now  remain 
Scarcely  a  hundred  to  be  slain. 
Then  on  Bock  River  we  made  our  nest 
Of  wigwams  where  we  took  a  rest 
From  our  long  time  of  killing, 
Though  not  much  Indian  blood  was  left  for 

spilling. 
What  we  had  done,  we  soon  were  made  to 

feel: 

For  the  Great  Spirit  paid  us  back 
Bringing  these  Whites  upon  our  track, 
With  whom  we  now  must  deal. 
Before  them  we  have  had  to  leave 
Our  latest  dwelling  place  and  best 


THE  DEBATE. 


And  though  our  hearts  did  deeply  grieve 

Again  we  had  to  move  still  further  west, 

Over  the  royal  River's  haughty  foam, 

Into  our  present  quiet  home. 

So  far  the  Great  Spirit  has  now  brought  us 

And  many  a  miracle  has  wrought  us; 

But  what  our  lot  is  hence  to  be 

Lies  not  within  my  soul  to  see, 

Or  if  it  did,  my  tongue  is  not  to  tell  ; 

Still  I  must  think  all  will  be  well 

If  we  but  listen  to  our  sage, 

Who  says  that  rage  must  bleed  for  rage, 

Revenge's  arrow  will  come  back 

And  level  all  upon  its  track 

Tapping  at  last  the  very  heart 

Whence  it  did  start. 

That  is  the  Indian's  danger. 

More  tfian  the  white-faced  stranger." 

So  spake  the  bronze-lipped  poetess 

Who  knew  the  story  of  her  people's  stress 

Through  centuries  of  far  migrations, 

In  Oceanic  undulations 

Westward  across  the  continent, 

Till  o'er  the  Mississippi  sent 

Unto  their  present  habitations; 

Her  people's  old  recurring  fate 

In  heartfelt  words  she  did  narrate, 

That  fated  whirl  of  Indian  despair 

Which  Keokuk  would  stop  by  a  new  state 


116  CANTO  IV— BLACK  HAWK  AND  KEOKUK. 

And  thus  a  race's  loss  repair, 

At  least  its  rapid  rush  would  check 

From  going  all  at  once  to  wreck. 

But  scarcely  was  the  story  ended 

And  by  the  people's  wiser  half  commended, 

When  Black  Hawk  sprang  his  daggered 
speech, 

And  for  his  weapon  made  a  reach 

To  brandish  its  defiance, 

As  if  to  cut  off  all  compliance. 

While  his  keen  blade  whizzed  on  the  air 

His  keener  words  hissed  round  him  every- 
where : 

"That  land  of  ours  we  never  sold, 

It  is  the  white  man's  lie  now  told 

By  artful  woman's  tongue, 

Inspired  by  slippery  Keokuk 

Who  never  would  our  rights  uphold, 

But  let  our  homes  from  us  be  wrung: 

Such  truckling  shall  I  never  brook, 

I  shall  retake  of  ours  what  thieves  once  took. 

Yea,  the  Great  Spirit's  gift  of  lands 

Cannot  by  us  be  sold, 

Cannot  be  handled  in  our  hands, 

And  thus  exchanged  for  gold. 

Who'll  pick  land  up  and  carry  it  along? 

To  no  man  singly  it  can  belong, 

It  is  for  all  the  tribe  who  use  it, 

Not  for  the  one  who  will  abuse  it. 

Never  the  red  man  shall  divide  the  soil — 


THE  DEBATE. 


Breaking  the  good  old  Indian  law  — 
And  o'er  it  stoop  himself  in  toil, 
As  if  he  were  a  white  man  or  a  squaw." 
Whereat  he  turned  aside  to  Keokuk 
And  gave  the  sage  a  scornful  look, 
Running  its  lines  out  to  the  nose's  tip 
Which  in  disdain  did  downward  dip. 
Heaven-soaring  went  up  the  applause, 
And  with  it  clamored  too  the  squaws 
Who  clung  to  the  time-honored  laws, 
Which  made  them  dig  the  earth  and  hoe  the 

maize, 

Chop  the  wood,  the  children  bear  and  raise, 
She  toiled  for  her  big  Indian  all  her  life, 
And  so  she  was  his  wife. 

By  such  entire  approval  stirred 

Black  Hawk  dared  break  his  boldest  word  : 

'  *  To  hunt  our  game  and  plant  our  corn 

We  shall  set  out  to-morrow  morn; 

From  our  own  native  field  and  wood 

Hereafter  we  shall  win  our  food, 

Despite  the  pale  land-hungry  thief, 

Whose  ownership  we  shall  make  brief 

Unless  by  flight  he  gets  relief. 

With  its  fair  days  has  come  the  spring 

And  bids  the  birds  for  us  to  sing, 

As  underneath  the  leaves  we  roam, 

Going  back  to  our  old  home. 

The  Mississippi's  whirling  flood 


CANTO  IV—  BLACK  HAWK  AND  KEOKUK. 


Let  us  repass  and  stay  for  good, 

That  stream  we  should  have  never  crossed 

This  way,  but  held  at  any  cost  ; 

Let  us  return,  undo  with  gun 

What  never  ought  to  have  been  done  ; 

Our  wives  and  children  with  us  take, 

Our  village  then  remake, 

Which  we  shall  not  forsake. 

Be  ready,  both  ye  tribal  bands, 

The  Foxes  and  the  Sauks 

With  whetted  tomahawks 

From  thieves  to  wrest  our  stolen  lands, 

And  with  our  twain  the  tribes  afar 

We  shall  unite  in  one  last  war, 

Winnebagoes,  Kickapoos, 

Potawatomies  and  all  the  Sioux  ; 

I  see  the  Red  Man's  rising  star 

When  he  a  nation,  too,  will  make, 

And  will  his  own  in  might  retake. 

I  see  our  band  of  painted  whoopers 

Scattering  afar  the  blue-coat  troopers, 

And  tomahawking  out  their  life  — 

That  is  the  end  of  mortal  strife. 

With  great  Tecumseh  once  I  stood, 

And  saw  him  welter  in  his  blood, 

And  with  his  prophet-brother  I  shot  true 

And  felled  my  man  at  Tippecanoe; 

We  shall  make  live  our  dying  race, 

Or  stamp  our  bloody  trace 

Upon  the  earth's  bewrinkled  face. 


THE  DEBATE. 

Rise,  then,  and  make  a  start,  ye  braves, 
Do  not  desert  your  fathers'  graves." 

All  seemed  to  shout  approval, 

None  liked  that  last  removal 

Which  they  would  somehow  wipe  away, 

And  so  turn  back  their  day, 

Undoing  all  their  westward  flight, 

Reversing  e'en  the  sunset's  light, 

As  if  it  could  wheel  round  in  upward  bent, 

And  so  remount  the  cycled  firmament. 

But  Keokuk  then  raised  his  wand 

To  signify  the  chief's  command 

That  the  wild  tumult  now  must  cease ; 

He  was  the  friend  of  peace, 

And  his  benignant  look  brought  calm, 

Dropping  in  passion's  wound  its  balm; 

Full  well  did  Black  Hawk  know  its  power, 

To  turn  the  soul  to  sweet  from  sour, 

And  so  he  straightway  strove  to  stem  it, 

And  by  suspicion  to  condemn  it; 

"Beware  of  Keokuk 's  soft  soap 

Which  washes  out  our  only  hope, 

And  leaves  us  prey  to  sheer  despair ; 

And  of  his  gentle  looks  beware, 

With  these  his  weapons  you  must  cope, 

In  them  is  hidden  sly  his  snare." 

The  chieftain  looked  a  silent  sneer, 
But  let  no  wrath  in  act  appear, 


120    CANTO    IV— BLACK   HAWK   AND    EEOKUK. 

A  word  of  wisdom  would  he  teach, 

And  sway  the  madness  by  his  speech, 

He  sought  to  soothe  the  seething  hour, 

And  lay  his  spell  upon  the  demon's  power, 

By  gentle  manner  and  oration, 

Instilling  solacement  and  its  salvation 

Into  his  frenzied  nation. 

"A  few  of  our  forefathers  rest  forever 

Beside  this  little  Iowa  river, 

Where  now  we  hope  to  stay  awhile 

Within  our  present  peaceful  domicile; 

The  vernal  sod  now  greens  above  them, 

It  is  our  duty  here  to  love  them. 

And  meed  of  memory  to  give 

That  their  example  still  may  live. 

Methinks  that  sorely  it  would  grieve  them 

If  we  of  our  free  will  should  leave  them. 

Since  the  great  treaty  many  years 

Have  circled  out  and  in, 

Beyond  have  borne  our  dearest  kin, 

Bestrown  us  with  their  hopes  and  fears ; 

Then  I  was  young,  but  now  am  gray, 

So  very  long  I  shall  not  stay, 

But  with  my  father  yonder  soon  be  laid  away. 

Our  old  and  young  lie  buried  here, 

Why  quit  the  tombs  of  those  most  near? 

Some  of  our  sires  of  many  moons  ago, 

My  own  more  distant  blood,  I  know, 

Eepose  beside  Bock  River's  flow. 

Thither  my  heart  doth  often  yearn, 


THE   DEBATE. 


Fain  would  I  see  my  fair  birth-place, 

But  life's  hard  lesson  I  have  had  to  learn, 

It  is  the  lesson  of  my  race. 

That  goodly  land  is  ours  no  longer, 

To  get  it  we  would  have  to  fight 

And  conquer,  too,  the  stronger, 

E  'en  if  we  have  the  right, 

Losing  perchance  what  now  we  own, 

The  very  ground  we  stand  upon  ; 

Then  just  one  more  enforced  migration 

The  funeral  march  will  be  of  all  our  nation  — 

With  one  exception,  'tis  Black  Hawk, 

The  sole  surviving  Sauk." 

So  spake  in  trembling  tones  staid  Keokuk, 
While  his  whole  being  with  emotion  shook. 
He  seemed  to  hear  his  people  gasping  their 

last  breath 

And  then  forever  sink  in  death. 
But   soon  he  gathered  up   his   broken   self 

again, 

And  started  in  a  calmer  strain  : 
"Why  not  for  great-grandfathers'  sakes 
Push  farther  back  to  the  Great  Lakes  — 
Where  once  we  had  our  dwelling  place 
And  stayed  for  years  our  westward  pace  ? 
Where  our  most  famous  deed  was  done  — 
Our  double  folk  was  wrought  to  one; 
Twinned  together  in  death  and  life, 
We  brought  to  end  our  tiibal  strife 


122    CANTO    IV— BLACK   HAWK   AND    KEOKUK. 

With  Indian's  ill  most  rife; 

If  all  the  Beds  the  same  could  do, 

A  nation  great  they  might  be  too. 

But,  ah !  that  seems  their  wall  of  fate ; 

Somehow  they  can't  associate, 

And  with  each  other  form  a  State. 

But  on  the  Lakes  we  were  not  ever 

E  'en  if  we  came  thence  to  Bock  River ; 

We  Sauks  must  go  still  farther  back, 

Up  the  St.  Lawrence  winds  our  track, 

Till  it  be  lost  in  twilight  dim 

Amid  the  Northern  ice-world  grim, 

Or  trails  into  the  frost-fringed  shores 

Where  the  Atlantic  roars. 

If  Black  Hawk  seeks  ancestral  graves 

Let  him  go  on  and  on  to  where  the  ocean 

laves 

The  fixed  and  bounded  continent — 
Where  he,  I  hope,  will  find  content — 
And  there  he'll  meet  his  British  friend 
For  whom  he  has  so  often  fought, 
Who  has  him  often  bought; 
Who  owns  that  distant  land  from  end  to  end. 
There  let  him  stay  with  his  first  ancestors, 
And  in  their  tombs  be  laid, 
For  which  he  has  us  long  beprayed, 
And  cease  embroiling  us  in  fatal  wars." 

Whereat  arose  a  wild  ado, 

Two  parties  made  the  hullabaloo, 


THE  DEBATE.  123 

One  side  would  hoot,  the  other  cheer 

The  leaders  there  who  faced  each  other  near, 

As  if  they  might  be  ready  for  a  tussle 

And  test  the  worth  of  words  by  muscle. 

But  Keokuk  eyed  down  his  foe, 

And  stopped  the  broil  by  looking  no. 

Division  had  set  in  again, 

Opposing  views  rent  all  atwain, 

Not  tribal  was  the  separation, 

Both  tribes  stayed  one  confederation. 

Keokuk  was  a  Sauk, 

So  also  was  Black  Hawk, 

Of  the  same  tribe  each  had  the  blood, 

Yet  as  born  antitypes  they  stood. 

The  one  was  happy  when  he  fought, 

Sating  his  greed  for  human  gore, 

The  other's  greatness  was  his  thought, 

His  bliss  was  when  his  folk  he  taught 

The  treasure  of  his  wisdom's  store. 

Savage  revenge  he  would  abate, 

Well  knowing  it  to  be  the  Indian's  fate; 

Black  Hawk  cried  out  in  hate, 

"With  gun  and  powder  and  whizzing  lead, 

Let  every  white  man  now  be  bled 

Until  his  skin  be  dyed  to  red." 

But  Keokuk  snapped  up  the  talk 

And  flung  it  stinging  at  the  Hawk : 

1 '  The  very  gun  you  shoot, 

Powder  and  ball  to  boot, 

From  white  man's  brains  you  have  to  take; 


124    CANTO    IV— BLACK   HAWK   AND    KEOKUK. 

Your  weapons  you  can't  make, 

And  with  his  very  knife 

You  take  his  life. 

Not  till  his  works  you  can  produce 

Of  fighting  him  there  is  no  use. ' ' 

So  spake  the  Indian  sage 

Seeking  to  tame  his  people's  rage, 

Which  was  their  doom  to  death. 

Sadly  he  fetched  his  sighing  breath, 

Till  quiet  was  restored  again 

When  he  continued  in  this  vein : 

* '  Some  words  I  still  would  like  to  say 

More  solemn  yet  than  any  spoken, 

Which  we  can  think  about  to-day, 

And  muse  what  they  betoken ; 

Perchance  in  them  we  may  foretell  our  fate, 

Unless  we  act  before  it  is  too  late. 

The  whites  have  pushed  us  on  before, 

I  like  it  not  and  would  blame  more 

If  we  to  ours  had  not  done  worse, 

And  on  them  wrought  the  greater  curse. 

The  red  has  been  a  foe  to  red, 

Black  Hawk  in  his  career  has  shed 

More  of  our  Indian  blood  than  white: 

Just  that  has  been  our  greatest  blight. 

Where  are  the  mighty  Illini  <? 

Their  homes  we  took  in  war  away, 

Some  dozens  only  have  been  left  to  sigh, 

And  wandering,  die ; 


THE  DEBATE.  125 

Their  tribe  is  almost  lost  to-day, 

Their  land  it  was  which  Black  Hawk  would 

now  claim, 
And  still  among  the  Whites  it  bears  their 

name; 
What  you  have  done  to  others,  has  been  done 

to  you, 
Unless  you  stop  this  mill  of  fate,  perish  shall 

ye  too." 

Then  rose  mild  Keokuk,  the  sage, 
Into  a  wise  prophetic  rage : 
"  Where  are  the  stout  Kaskaskias, 
Bold  Kickapoos  and  the  Cahokias — 
Bed  men  by  red  men  slain  I 
How  can  we  cleanse  that  deadly  stain! 
Swift  is  the  law  of  our  own  deed, 
Its  doom  of  us  to-day  we  read 
Unless  we  stay  its  murderous  speed. 
But  why  should  I  so  far  off  roam? 
The  best  example  have  we  here  at  home. 
Where  is  the  red-skinned  Iowa? 
Upon  his  soil  we  dwell  to-day, 
Which  we  have  seized  and  held  with  might 
Destroying  him  and  his  outright. 
Such  is  to  me  the  damning  fact ; 
To  us  returns  our  very  act, 
Though  now  the  hand  be  white. 
So  wave  on  wave  of  our  red  race 
Has  rolled  beyond  and  left  no  trace, 
Starting  from  distant  Eastern  ocean, 


126    CANTO    IV— BLACK    HAWK    AND    KEOKUK. 

Westward  has  flowed  its  dying  motion; 

Tribe  after  tribe  has  passed  away, 

Their  wheeled  destiny  makes  no  stay, 

And  soon  must  turn  our  fatal  day, 

Unless  new  character  we  take, 

And  our  ancestral  ways  forsake. 

We  must  transform  the  very  earth, 

And  make  it  picture  our  free  will, 

Thus  giving  to  ourselves  fresh  birth 

And  with  it  higher  human  worth, 

E'en  if  our  skin  be  coppery  still, 

Not  merely  we  the  peace  must  keep 

With  our  white  neighbors,  then  go  to  sleep ; 

Our  indolence  and  tribal  strife 

We  have  to  quit  or  give  up  life ; 

This  last  advice  and  best 

Old  Keokuk  would  give  as  his  bequest : 

Each  man  must  own  his  lot  of  soil 

And  till  it  with  his  toil, 

Each  must  his  former  life  undo 

And  work  it  over  through  and  through, 

Transforming  it,  strand  by  strand, 

Obedient  to  the  time's  command, 

Till  all  his  character  be  new. 

I  tell  his  lot,  though  this  by  him  be  hated: 

The  red  man  civilized — or  fated. ' ' 

The  prophet  here  in  turn  scowled  down 

The  universal  frown, 

Which  ignorance  must  always  show 

To  what  it  does  not  know. 


THE    DIVISION.  127 

III. 

Sage  Keokuk  was  hardly  understood 

By  those  who  sprang  of  his  own  blood ; 

His  people  he  sought  somehow  to  save, 

Though  bent  on  digging  their  own  grave 

And  leaping  into  it  outright 

Upon  the  field  of  battle  with  the  white. 

The  Indian  idealist  he  was 

Who  thought  to  change  the  deepest  human 

laws 

By  centuries  of  use  inbred, 
Ere  one  brief  life-time  might  be  sped ; 
The  case  he  saw  but  not  the  cause, 
Not  in  a  decade's  speedy  birth 
May  be  produced  an  aeon's  worth; 
And  so  the  noble  red-skinned  dreamer 
Could  never  be  his  folks'  redeemer. 
The  mill  of  time  turns  not  so  fast 
To  change  the  man  of  copper, 
The  grain  might"  otherwise  not  last, 
And  dry  would  run  the  hopper 
Through  which  the  world  must  always  go  on 

going; 

One  grist  is  ground,  another  is  a-growing. 
Ambition  lofty  soared  with  Keokuk, 
An  Indian  Prometheus, 
Who  would  the  order  old  untruss, 
His  race's  God  no  more  would  brook, 
Would  be  the  one  red-skinned  reformer, 
Of  his  red  world  the  Titan  stormer, 


128    CANTO    IV— BLACK   HAWK   AND    EEOKUK. 

New-model  it  to  his  ideal 

Whose  throbs  he  never  failed  to  feel 

And  in  his  speeches  to  reveal. 

Thus  in  a  single  generation 

He  would  remake  the  Indian  nation, 

Though  still  his  work  would  have  to  imitate 

The  institutions  of  another  race, 

And  his  own  people's  life  displace 

With  a  new  sort  of  State. 

But  can  they  trained  be  to  that  transition, 

And  dome  the  sky  of  Keokuk's  ambition! 

Soon  Black  Hawk  seized  the  waiting  word, 

He  could  no  longer  hear  unheard, 

But  to  his  rival  fiercely  turned 

While  out  his  mouth  his  language  burned: 

1  'Bed- skinned  destroyer  of  red  skins, 

Art  thou  far  more  than  I  or  any  other, 

Thy  words  are  reeking  with  all  sins 

Against  thy  Indian  brother ; 

His  very  soul  thou  wouldst  unking 

And  leave  his  body  but  an  empty  thing. 

Of  warriors  thou  wouldst  make  us  squaws, 

To  chop  the  wood,  to  plant  the  maize, 

Upsetting  all  our  ancient  laws, 

Compelling  men  their  crops  to  raise, 

And  so  to  get  the  white  man's  praise 

For  industry  and  tillage — 

Which  ends  our  Indian  village. 

The  children  too  we  ought  to  bear 


THE   DIVISION.  129 

And  with  our  milk  the  infants  rear; 

The  squaw  herself  will  not  consent 

That  we  usurp  her  part  in  life, 

She'll  fight  in  order  to  prevent 

Her  turning  to  a  husband  from  a  wife, 

And  that  will  be  new  source  of  strife. 

As  for  myself,  I  say  it  here, 

And  dare  repeat  it  without  fear, 

I'll  never  tomahawk  a  helpless  tree. 

But  a  white  body  it  must  always  be ; 

I'll  never  scalp  with  hoe  or  plow,  I  swear, 

My  good  old  mother  Earth, 

But  it  will  be  Whitef ace's  tuft  of  hair 

Which  I  shall  dangle  at  my  girth. ' ' 

Black  Hawk  thrilled  the  deepest  chord 

Which  swayed  the  soul  of  savages, 

Whose  very  dreams  are  ravages 

Responding  to  that  fiercely  spoken  word 

Which  they  from  furious  tongue  had  heard. 

Even  the  squaws  to  shout  began, 

They  knew  of  Keokuk's  plan 

And  were  against  it,  every  heart, 

They  clung  in  love  to  their  own  part 

Of  the  red  woman's  hard  existence, 

With  the  woman 's  fond  persistence 

In  the  transmitted  custom  of  her  lot. 

She  asked  not  why  or  what, 

She  took  it  as  the  best, 

For  her  the  only  test 

Of  things  called  bad  or  good, 


130    CANTO    IV— BLACK   HAWK   AND    KEOKUK. 

And  so  she  always  for  it  stood. 

Amid  the  people's  noisy  talk 

The  orator  was  still  Black  Hawk, 

His  weaponed  tongue  he  would  not  sheathe. 

He  slashed  it  out  as  long  as  he  could  breathe ; 

But  now  he  struck  a  soberer  strain, 

Of  argument  he  oped  a  vein 

Which  showed  him  reasoning  his  plan, 

Though  still  in  it  the  Indian : 

"I  say,  that  one  ancestral  strand 
Which  scorns  division  of  the  land, 
The  red  man  will  retain  forever, 
It  from  his  life  you  cannot  sever 
Without  his  final  deep  undoing, 
E  'en  though  you  call  it  his  renewing. 
Let  selfish  whites  each  take  a  slice, 
And  buy  and  sell  it  for  a  price ; 
The  earth  belongs  to  the  Great  Spirit 
Who  gave  it  to  his  children  to  inherit — 
To  call  their  own  what  they  can  use, 
Or  else  it  lose; 
Not  it  to  break  in  little  spots 
Which  each  may  name  his  lots ; 
Our  soil  cannot  be  bought  or  sold, 
So  our  traditions  long  have  told. 
'Tis  the  Great  Spirit's  stern  command 
That  we  should  now  retake  our  land, 
In  which  our  noble  fathers  sleep 
And  which  our  duty  is  to  keep ; 


THE   DIVISION. 


As  they  to  us  have  given  it, 

So  we  to  ours  shall  then  the  same  transmit.  " 

Applause  more  frantic  and  intense 

Greeted  the  speaker's  eloquence 

Than  had  before  been  ever  heard 

Responding  to  his  fiery  word. 

He  bared  the  Indians'  deepest  sense, 

Illumed  the  limits  of  their  consciousness, 

And  tongued  their  fate's  last  stress, 

'Gainst  which  they  strove  without  defence. 

He  spake  their  truest  representative 

Of  what  they  felt  and  wished  and  thought  ; 

And  yet  through  him  they  could  not  live, 

In  such  a  seesaw  they  were  caught 

'Twixt  could  and  ought 

Till  they  were  ground  to  naught. 

Between  Black  Hawk  and  Keokuk 

They  swayed  with  many  a  turn  and  crook; 

Between  two  worlds  colliding  madly 

They  to  death  were  dashing  sadly; 

Two  hostile  institutions  in  a  crash 

Crushed  the  poor  mortal  with  their  clash. 

Sage  Keokuk  well  knew  that  war, 

For  in  him  throbbed  its  mighty  jar, 

And  his  cleft  soul  he  scarce  could  shield 

Upon  its  inner  battlefield; 

He  felt  the  two-edged  argument, 

And  with  it  was  his  spirit  rent  ; 

Still  the  red  sage  outsaw  his  race 

And  sought  to  save  it  for  a  space, 


132    CANTO    IV— BLACK    HAWK    AND    KEOKUK. 

Or  one  small  fragment  of  the  whole 
He  would  preserve  by  his  control. 
Bravely  he  faced  the  noisy  rabble 
And  bade  them  leave  their  babble; 
And  when  had  died  away  each  mutter, 
His  weighty  thought  he  thus  did  utter: 

* '  Of  the  Great  Spirit  is  the  word, 

Whose  voice  it  seems  Black  Hawk  alone  has 

heard, 

Bidding  us  live  as  in  the  past, 
So  shall  our  tribe  forever  last. 
But  now  the  truth  to  you  I  have  to  say 
Two  are  the  Great  Spirits  of  this  day, 
One  is  the  white  man's,  one  is  ours, 
But  very  different  seem  their  powers; 
The  one  is  greater,  the  other  less, 
My  heart  doth  writhe  it  to  confess ; 
Across  the  prairies  and  over  the  heights 
And  on  the  clouds  I  see  their  fights, 
The  one  pursues,  the  other  flees, 
Unstopped  by  mountains,  rivers,  seas, 
Two  hundred  suns  ago  they  say, 
This  new  Great  Spirit  sped  this  way 
Over  the  water  from  out  the  East, 
And  hunted  our  Great  Spirit  like  a  beast, 
Who,  huddling  all  his  children  red, 
Has  o'er  the  Mississippi  fled. 
My  longing  is  to  make  a  lasting  peace 
That  war  between   the   two   Great   Spirits 

cease, 


THE    DIVISION.  133 

And  ours,  although  the  weaker  one, 

The  lowering  day  of  death  may  shun, 

And  save  the  remnant  of  his  folk 

From  the  descending  final  stroke 

Of  Pate's  uplifted  tomahawk. 

That  blow  we  might  betimes  yet  balk 

Were  it  not  for  this  mad  Black  Hawk, 

Who  thinks  with  his  small  band  to   carry 

through 
What  all  our  race's  greatest  chieftains  could 

not  do, 
Philip,  Tecumseh,  Pontiac, 

All  failed  to  turn  the  Whiteface  back 
, 

And  hinder  his  Great  Spirit's  fight 
From  putting  ours  to  flight— 
I  say  we  cannot  meet  his  might. 
Not  only  these  white  skins  we  view 
Black  Hawk  will  have  us  battle  with  anew, 
But  their  Great  Spirit  he  will  contest, 
And  drive  it  off  out  of  the  West, 
But  it  will  smite  him  to  his  fall 
Which  must  involve  us,  too — 
His  ruin  now  hangs  over  all." 

So  Keokuk  the  sage  has  seen  the  rods 
Swish  down  in  this  new  battle  of  the  Gods, 
As  "it  was  fought  to  his  deep- seeing  eye 
Upon  the  earth  and  in  the  sky — 
Perchance  a  fable  but  no  lie — 
Strangely  retelling  that  old  Greek  tale, 


134  CANTO  IV— BLACK  HAWK  AND  KEOKUK. 

Although  he  knew  it  not, 

Which  Time  can  never  stale 

But  brings  to  bloom  again  on  every  spot. 

He  did  not  say  but  well  he  knew 

His  race  must  change  its  Great  Spirit  too, 

And  take  another  deity, 

If  of  its  doom  it  would  get  free — 

Who  would  with  a  new  faith  its  evils  cure, 

So  that  it  could  the  conflict  of  the  time  endure. 

But  Keokuk,  the  red  idealist, 

Could  not  fetch  up  at  once  what  ages 
missed — 

He  could  not  pluck  in  a  life-time 's  revolution 

The  fruit  of  a  millenial  evolution. 

He  sought  to  jump  an  entire  rearward  race 

Into  the  swiftest  human  forward  pace; 

He  dreamed  himself  Prometheus  again 

Who  shaped  dead  clay  to  living  men, 

From  whose  electric  finger  tips  the  spark  of 
mind 

Leaped  to  the  brain  of  all  mankind, 

Arid  out  the  dullest  earthly  clod 

Came  forth  a  being  like  a  God. 

So  Keokuk  had  the  lofty  goal: 

For  that  old  Indian  body  a  bran-new  soul 

Without  the  touch  of  time  to  win ; 

Alack !  the  red  man  could  not  slough  his  skin, 

And  slip  another  person  in. 

Nor  could  those  great  colliding  Spirits  twain. 

Who  sought  their  worlds  with  power  to  main- 
tain, 


FRANCESCO   MOLINAR.  135 

Be  pacified  till  one  be  slain. 
The  multitude  with  shrinking  dread, 
Had  listened  to  what  Keokuk  had  said, 
And  ceased  their  noisy  passionate  crush, 
Feeling  within  their  souls  a  sudden  hush, 
As  if  a  gleam  had  from  beyond  been  sent 
Flashing  the  silence  of  presentiment. 

IV. 

Then  Black  Hawk,  not  to  be  undone  outright, 
Leads  forth  a  man  kept  hitherto  from  sight, 
Whom  he  would  now  invoke  as  voice  from 

heaven, 

Which  not  to  hear  would  never  be  forgiven 
By  the  fierce  Powers  overhead, 
Until  each  Indian  lay  dead. 
A  stranger  through  the  crowd  appeared  to 

dodge, 
He  slyly  slipped  from  Black  Hawk's  near-by 

lodge, 

Where  he  had  heard  what  had  been  said 
By  Keokuk,  who  was  the  head 
Of  both  the  tribes,  the  Fox  and  Sauk, 
Whom  he  would  keep  from  war  by  peaceful 

talk, 

Revealing  what  lay  in  the  time's  design, 
How  to  avoid  its  stroke  malign, 
And  save  the  remnant  of  his  race 
From  the  Great  Spirit's  own  white  face. 
But  now  behold  Francesco  Molinar  again, 


J36    CANTO    IV— BLACK   HAWK   AND    KEOKUK. 

The  dark-stoled  Jesuit,  born  in  Spain, 

Yet  talking  Indian  on  the  border, 

Obeying  still  the  general  of  his  Order, 

Who  from  old  Kome  has  sent  command 

To  his  soldiers  uniformed  in  every  land, 

Of  whom  this  Molinar  was  one, 

Daring  to  do  whatever  could  be  done 

To  win  the  war  in  realms  of  sin 

For  Church  and  State  and  Latin  kin. 

That  fierce  old  feud  of  savage  circling  years, 

The  fountain  of  a  century's  tears, 

Between  the  Spanish  kings  and  Netherlands, 

He  bore  within  to  Westerlands. 

In  the  Armada  still  he  fought 

Upon  the  Mississippi's  shore, 

The  Saxon  foe  again  he  sought 

To  conquer  as  of  yore : 

Such  conflict  was  his  being's  very  core. 

That  ancient  European  strife 

Between  Teutonic  North  and  Eoman  rule, 

In  every  blood-drop  of  him  still  was  rife, 

Transplanted  to  this  farthest  Thule. 

The  red  men  all  he  schemed  to  rally 

And  drive  the  Saxon  from  the  Valley, 

Or  break  the  onward  flow  at  least, 

And  yet  he  only  saw  its  speed  increased. 

Louisiana's  vast  domain 

Had  been  the  American 's  recent  gain, 

"Which  he  would  somehow  counteract — 

Undo  the  world 's  historic  act 


FRANCESCO   MOLINAR. 

And  turn  it  back  to  Spain 

Which  it  had  quit  some  centuries  ago, 

With  damning  frown  of  overthrow. 

The  cosmic  egg  was  getting  addle, 

Still  the  Great  Spirit's  huge  canoe 

He  tried  his  best  to  paddle 

Up  the  time-stream,  at  its  swiftest  too  ; 

Like  Spain's  topmost  grandee, 

He  looks  Castilian  dignity 

Now  speaking  at  Black  Hawk  's  behest  ; 

There  peeps  the  nature  of  his  quest, 

As  the  white  priest  full  loftily 

Dissects  red  Keokuk's  theology: 


'  *  First  a  correction  I  would  make 

Of  what  I  deem  a  bad  mistake, 

Which  the  last  speaker  did  commit, 

Which  if  believed  would  send  you  to  the  pit. 

Just  one  Great  Spirit  rules  both  red  and 

white, 

And  loves  them  both,  if  he  be  thought  aright, 
Not  two  of  them,  as  Keokuk  says  ; 
To  only  one  the  wise  man  prays, 
That  one  is  the  Great  Spirit  good- 
One  good  —  when  he  is  truly  understood. 
But  a  spirit  bad  there  is,  the  Devil, 
Who  has  in  man  great  power  of  evil, 
He  is  the  foe  of  red  and  white, 
Of  you  and  also  me, 
Of  all  the  world  that  we  can  see  ; 


138    CANTO    IV— BLACK   HAWK   AND    KEOKUK. 

With  him  I  battle  day  and  night 

In  holy,  never-ending  fight. 

And  now  I  wish  to  say  a  solemn  fact, 

On  which  you  soon  will  have  to  act : 

Yon  Americans  across  the  River 

Are  of  that  Devil 's  darkest  brood, 

From  whom  you  must  yourselves  deliver 

With  help  of  our  Great  Spirit  good — 

From  vampyres  sucking  Indian  blood. 

If  them  ye  drive  out  of  the  West, 

By  the  Good  Spirit  you  will  be  blest 

As  doing  his  most  holy  will, 

His  promise  then  he  shall  fulfill. 

Him  fighting  on  your  side  I  see, 

And  giving  you  the  victory; 

Put  down  these  wicked  heretics 

With  all  their  saucy,  lying  tricks, 

And  cunning  words,  in  which  they  revel, 

The  spawn  of  that  same  ugly  Devil. 

The  true  Great  Spirit  is  unknown 

To  philosophic  Keokuk, 

But  I  stand  near  his  very  throne, 

And  bask  in  his  most  gracious  look; 

Him  with  you  I  along  shall  take, 

If  you  Black  Hawk  your  leader  make. 

Start  now  upon  your  new  career 

Back  toward  the  rising  sun; 

No  longer  eye  the  setting  one, 

Which  you  have  faced  this  many  a  year 

Falling  the  hopeless  tear. 


FRANCESCO   MOLINAR.  139 

And  if  your  march  leads  you  to  death 
I  shall  be  there  at  your  last  breath, 
Anointing  you  for  Paradise  straightway, 
Whose  gates  you  shall  pass  through  without 

delay, 

And  this  drear  life  you  there  will  never  miss 
Fleeting  angelic  days  in  Heaven's  bliss." 
Such  was  the  gospel  now  of  Molinar, 
Preaching  the  Indians  into  war 
Likely  to  be  their  last, 
If  they  the  fatal  die  should  cast; 
Their  savagery  he  deeply  stirred 
By  favor  of  the  Lord, 
Their  dying  breath  he  e'en  would  bless 
With  promise  of  eternal  happiness ; 
He  prayed  to  do  the  will  divine, 
Which  was  his  own  sweet  will, 
And  Paternoster's  every  line 
With  unctuous  tone  would  fill, 
But  'tween  "thy  will  be  done"  and  mine 
He  left  a  fluctuating  gap, 
Which  it  were  hard  to  map, 
And  it  remains  unsettled  still. 
Quick  Keokuk  picks  up  the  thread 
Of  flitting  words ;  the  philosophic  Red 
Against  the  sacerdotal  White 
Is  pitted  for  a  brainy  fight, 
And  scarcely  is  a  minute  sped, 
When  that  big  Indian's  phosphorescent  head 
In  darkness  strikes  a  dazzling  light: 


140    CANTO    IV— BLACK   HAWK   AND    KEOKUK. 

"This  black-robed  man  has  no  control 

Over  the  white  or  red  man's  soul; 

I  question  if  he  has  the  key 

Which  can  unlock  futurity, 

And  well  I  know  he  has  no  right 

To  promise  triumph  in  this  fight. 

Why  should  we  want  his  happy  skies  f 

We  Indians  have  our  own  fair  Paradise. 

And  the  Great  Spirit  of  Americans 

Whom  he  calls  Devil, 

Defeats  him,  thwarting  all  his  cunning  plans, 

And  curses  him  with  his  own  evil. 

He  and  his  people  once  possessed 

All  of  these  lands  of  the  North- West, 

And  all  the  valley  to  the  sea ; 

From  mountain  crest  to  mountain  crest 

They  claimed  their  own  to  be. 

Where  are  they  now,  0  Molinar! 

You  urge  us  here  to  that  same  war 

In  which  your  people  have  been  driven  to  the 

night, 

And  still  are  keeping  up  their  flight. 
Through  Texas  trembles  now  their  throng, 
Will  not  stay  there  so  very  long 
If  it  be  true  what  I  have  learned ; 
Their  faces  have  already  turned 
Toward  the  Brazos  and  the  Bio  Grande ; 
The  new  Great  Spirit  swoops  that  land, 
For  your  Great  Spirit  shows  so  weak — 
Weaker  than  ours — I  dare  it  speak — 


FRANCESCO   MOLINAR. 


So  weak  as  that  of  the  Illini, 

To  whom  is  scarcely  left  a  babe  to  cry, 

So  weak  as  that  of  the  lowas, 

Whom  we  upon  this  spot  have  slain, 

And  seized  their  land  as  our  own  gain, 

From  whose   fresh  graves    shoots   up   our 

maize  — 

A  deed  not  altogether  to  our  praise. 
Down  to  St.  Louis  once  I  went 
Where  the  great  treaty  had  been  sent 
For  us  red  men  to  sign  — 
And  Black  Hawk's  name  is  there  with  mine  —  • 
Many  a  year  has  gone  since  then, 
I  recollect  the  coming  men, 
You  smirch  them  the  vile  Saxon  brood; 
I  saw  the  going  men,  they  were  your  blood, 
And  sank  your  falling  star, 
Francesco  Molinar  — 
You  handed  over  all  this  western  world 
To  a  young  banner  there  unfurled, 
Streaming  a  rainbow  of  red  and  white  and 

blue, 
On  which  the  twinkling  stars  shone  out  to 

view, 

From  heaven  heralding  a  gospel  new. 
Your  aged  flag  then  floated  down  the  River 
Out  of  our  sight  forever, 
And  to  return  this  way  —  never, 
Till  the  westering  sun  wheel  round  his  team, 
And  the  roaring  Mississippi  run  up  stream; 


142    CAXTO    IV— BLACK   HAWK   AND   KEOKUK. 

These  new  white  men  are  they 

With  whom  we  have  to  deal  to-day 

And  with  them  pray ; 

We  have  to  deal  with  their  Great  Spirit  too, 

But  not  with  yours  and  you; 

For  yours,  if  I  dare  seem  so  bold, 

Is  getting  just  a  little  old; 

But  their  Great  Spirit  shows  far  greater 

Than  yours,  e'en  if  he  came  much  later, 

A  harder  hitter  he,  and  hotter  hater, 

If  ever  I  again  should  have  to  fight 

To  him  my  prayers  I'd  say  each  night. 

And  for  that  war  of  good  with  evil, 

Or  as  you  put  it,  of  God  with  Devil, 

Why  doesn't  your  God,  if  he  be  stronger, 

Kill  Devil  without  delaying  longer, 

And  put  an  end  to  that  long  strife 

By  taking  simply  one  bad  life — 

Skin  off  his  scalp,  though  he  should  pray 

For  mercy — that  is  our  Indian  way ; 

The  Devil's  scalp,  if  I  were  you, 

0  priestly  Molinar, 

Would  dangle  from  my  belt  for  all  to  view 

As  greatest  trophy  of  my  war. 

And  so  just  ponder !  for  all  time  to  run, 

My  labor  at  one  stroke  were  done. 

Then  I  would  hurry  back  to  Spain 

Whence  I  would  never  pop  my  poll  again. " 

Here  Keokuk  stopped  suddenly 
And  dropped  his  play  of  irony, 


FRANCESCO   MOLINAR. 


Sober,  yea  sad,  he  seemed, 

Some    tears    aclown    his    furrowed  features 

streamed, 

Yet  love  out  of  his  glances  gleamed  : 
"I  shall  make  peace  in  all  my  land, 
Enforcing  it  by  just  command, 
To  win  us  that  Great  Spirit  new 
With  whom  we  have  henceforth  to  do. 
I  '11  get  him  for  my  people  if  I  can, 
And  friend  be  to  that  coming  man, 
Who  calls  himself  American.*' 
Great  was  the  hubbub  —  in  two  parts 
The  people  stood  with  separated  hearts  ; 
The  two  sides  shouting  at  each  other, 
It  seemed  like  brother  fighting  brother; 
Party  hate  the  village  rending, 
A  civil  broil  appeared  impending, 
When  Keokuk,  the  statesman  chief, 
Grappled  the  crisis  and  bespoke  his  grief  : 
"Alas!  I  see  we  must  divide  — 
Let  each  man  choose  his  side  — 
It  tears  atwain  my  heart 
Your  going  now  apart  ; 
On  us  the  red  man's  curse  has  lit, 
I  see  we  cannot  shun  a  split 
Though  we  shall  have  to  pay  for  it. 
So  hearken  to  my  tears  '  command  : 
Let  Black  Hawk's   friends   there  with  him 

stand  ; 
But  those  who  choose  to  stay  with  me, 


144    CANTO    IV— BLACK    HAWK    AND    KEOKUK. 

May  take  their  place  at  yonder  tree. ' ' 
Black  Hawk  leaped  up  and  gave  a  whoop, 
Almost  one  half  of  the  whole  troop 
Stood  with  him  there  to  be  his  braves 
Marching  to  take  their  father 's  graves 
Across  the  Mississippi's  waves. 
Sage  Keokuk  stayed  with  the  rest, 
Still  doing  what  he  deemed  the  best, 
Hoping  that  many  might  turn  back 
When  they  had  smelt  the  first  attack. 
Soon  Molinar  brought  up  the  rear, 
He  could  not  quite  conceal  his  fear 
That  Satan  must  have  ta'en  a  hand 
In  splitting  Black  Hawk's  Indian  band, 
And  that  a  diabolic  eloquence 
Inspired  red  Keokuk 's  sense 
Wording  it  with  forbidden  power 
The  saint  to  overtower. 

The  sun  went  down  upon  that  little  nation, 
But  showed  the  red  man's  separation; 
The  tribal  soul  in  two  was  rent 
And  there  could  be  no  settlement. 
But  Keokuk  felt  full  his  heart 
Seeing  so  many  of  his  own  depart; 
Against  the  Hawk  he  had  no  hate, 
Went  to  his  foe  as  one  held  dear, 
Whom  he  would  still  conciliate 
And  drawing  with  a  whisper  near, 
Prophetic  spake  that  none  could  hear : 


FRANCESCO  MOLINAR.  145 

*  *  Black  Hawk,  whatever  you  may  think  of  me, 
Your  friend  I  still  shall  prove  to  be ; 
I  know  you  will  be  coming  back 
Ere  many  moons  have  arched  their  track 
Around  yon  domed  blue; 
Now  this  I  wish  to  say  to  you: 
E'en  if  a  prisoner  you  be, 
I  shall  do  all  I  can  to  set  you  free — 
Whatever  you  have  done  to  me; 
I  shall  you  not  in  wrath  requite, 
But  save  you  from  your  deed ; 
Such  is  my  present  creed, 
Which  I  have  learned  from  a  wandered  white 
Whom  once  I  lodged  and  talked  with  over- 
night. 

So  send  to  me  when  comes  the  need ; 
Upon  my  help  you  may  rely, 
Till  then,  good-bye. 


10 


Canto  Jf iftf). 


LINCOLN'S  MARCH. 
I. 

Forward  the  frolic  soldiers  fare 
Laughing  and  singing  without  a  care; 
New  Salem  soon  is  out  of  sight, 
Yet  over  it  a  cloudlet  bright 
Hangs  sun-beshone  up  in  the  sky, 
And  drops  its  glint  in  every  eye 
Which  glimpsing  back  with  turned  head 
Lets  the  foot  trip  in  onward  tread, 
Perchance  a  tear  might  now  and  then  be  shed. 
To  Bardstown  leads  the  road  quite  new, 
Marked  by  a  muddy  rut  or  two 
Of  wagon  wheels,  and  by  the  stamp 
Of  horses'  hoofs,  to  which  the  tramp 
Of  human  feet  now  adds  its  tracks 
Imprinted  as  on  softest  wax. 
(146) 


THROUGH    THE    PRAIRIE. 

Over  their  way  a  cloud  would  lower — 
The  needle  lightning  pricks  their  sight, 
Flashing  its  point  e  'en  in  the  night, 
And  makes  their  eyelids  close  and  cower; 
The  welkin  sprays  an  April  shower 
Into  their  startled  faces  just  for  fun. 
Next  in  his  turn  the  merry-making  sun 
Would  pour  down  at  a  single  glance 
Wide  waterfalls  of  radiance 
Slanting  athwart  the  fluffy  cloud, 
And  shedding  sheen  upon  that  crowd 
Responsive  in  a  smiling  dance 
O  'er  every  line  of  countenance ; 
While  with  his  heat  sent  from  above 
Sol  dries  their  garments  at  his  stove, 
And  warms  them  with  his  love. 
Now  from  the  prairie  '&  outstretch  free, 
As  level  as  the  surfaced  sea, 
A  flowering  democracy 
Rainbows  the  land  with  variegated  glee, 
A  throng  of  all  the  floral  races 
Begin  to  show  their  tinted  faces; 
The  whites,  the  yellows,  and  the  reds, 
Uprise  and  nod  their  mottled  heads 
In  the  caressing  vernal  breeze, 
With  many  radiant  courtesies 
Unto  the  lines  which  march  along, 
Saluting  too  the  Captain  strong. 
Who  seems  to  be  the  very  man 
The  prairie  longs  for  in  its  plan, 


148  CANTO    T— LINCOLN'S  MARCH. 

Hailing  him  in  its  grassy  scroll 

The  incarnation  of  its  soul ; 

It  laughs  as  if  it  has  a  new  life  won, 

And  folds  in  love  its  very  son, 

Of  all  to  be  the  greatest  one 

Ever  bred  upon  its  even  space ; 

It  mirrors  him  within  its  face 

The  leveler  of  caste  and  race, 

And  sees  its  own  equality 

Rise  up  into  humanity, 

Become  a  man  incorporate 

Who  puts  its  soul  into  the  State. 

Oh  wonderful  the  transformation — 

He  seems  to  prairie  all  the  Nation! 

The  peaks  along  the  Atlantic  shore, 

No  longer  haughty  as  before 

In  pride  of  the  old  families 

Which  always  claimed  the  topmost  prize, 

Have  tipped  their  heads  a  little  lower, 

Above  him  they  can  hardly  soar ! 

The  difference  of  East  and  West, 

Of  mountain  old  and  young  prairie, 

He  moulds  into  a  union  blest, 

Though  they  be  still  somewhat  contrary — 

Joining  of  each  what  is  the  best 

In  one  great  swirl  of  patriotic  zest. 

Also  the  South  as  well  as  North 

Fails  not  to  feel  his  prairial  worth; 

For  both  anew  he  interlinks, 

Evening  out  their  wayward  kinks 


THROUGH    THE   PRAIRIE.  149 

Into  one  mighty  equaled  whole 

That  all  this  people  have  one  soul, 

The  one  abiding  consecration, 

And  may  henceforth  be  called  the  Nation. 

So  Abraham  Lincoln  went  his  way, 

And  many  a  thought  leaped  up  that  day 

Jumping  into  his  brain  and  out, 

It  was  rainbow-colored  rout 

Of  happy  hopeful  fantasies, 

Which  skipped  around  the  sunlit  skies 

In  iridescent  drolleries. 

At  that  fine  sword  he  often  glanced, 

Which  dangled  at  his  side  and  danced 

In  sympathetic  jingles  of  enjoyment 

To  find  itself  again  in  such  employment, 

And  to  caress  its  long-shanked  wearer, 

Worthy  of  its  ancestral  bearer. 

From  wreathed  scabbard  then  he  drew 

That  fiery  flashing  blade  anew, 

And  sharply  viewed  it  from  near  by, 

When  the  inscription  caught  his  eye 

Which  he  had  glimpsed  before ; 

Man  is  born  free — so  ran  its  lore, 

Once  worded  in  the  Declaration 

Signed  by  a  former  generation 

Of  famous  levelers, 

For  whom  his  heart  in  speech  upstirs : 

"A  Eutledge  too  has  there  his  name 

Upon  the  roll  of  everlasting  fame — 


150  CANTO    Y— LINCOLN'S  MARCH. 

Shall  I  ever  do  the  same  f ' ' 
So  Lincoln  dreamed  of  his  career. 
And  yet  the  memory  most  dear, 
E'en  calling  up  a  tender  tear, 
Hovered  around  the  maiden's  word 
As  she  him  girded  with  this  sword — 
Sword  of  the  Rutledges  now  taken 
And  at  the  country's  foe  reshaken. 
The  hoary  brand  that  Balmung  hight 
And  gleamed  afar  in  old  Teutonic  night, 
Girding  the  champion  Sigfrid  bright 
As  if  he  were  the  hero  of  the  sun, 
Shall  be  by  this  new  sword  outshone 
When  its  heroic  deed  is  done. 

At  every  crossing  of  the  roads 
The  people  flocked  by  wagon  loads, 
Or  thither  tramped  from  near  and  far 
To  see  the  soldiers  go  to  war. 
The  mother  held  her  babe  at  breast, 
And  loudly  cheered  with  all  the  rest; 
Much  she  had  heard  the  borderers  talk, 
She  feared  the  Indian's  tomahawk, 
Which  the  mute  suckling  did  not  spare, 
Whose  fate  the  mother  too  might  share. 
Old  sooty  Satan  with  hoof  and  horn 
The  backwoods  rather  held  in  scorn; 
They  knew  one  overmastering  evil, 
And  named  him  the  Red  Devil! 
One  article  of  faith  they  had, 


THROUGH    THE    PRAIRIE. 

And  never  failed  to  make  it  good — or  bad — 
And  for  such  faith  their  blood  would  shed : 
"The  Indian  good  is  Indian  dead." 

Soon  out  the  ranks  a  high-keyed  voice 
Piped  up  a  note  of  shrilly  noise — 
It  was  one  of  the  younger  boys : 
"Captain,  show  off  a  little  of  your  glory, 
And  tell  us  now  a  roaring  story." 
Whereat  another  older  throat 
Brayed  out  a  louder,  coarser  note : 
"Abe,  you  can  outspin  the  world  in  yarning, 
That  is  the  nub  of  all  your  laming; 
Come,  make  us  now  a  little  speech, 
Somehow  you  cannot  help  but  preach, 
Balloon  yourself  with  some  hot  air 
Which  you  can  make  just  anywhere, 
And  hoist  us  up  to  cloudland  fair." 
Lincoln  looked  skyward  at  the  word, 
And  to  a  kind  of  prayer  was  stirred : 
" Behold  the  glory  of  the  Lord! 
Above  us  bends  his  promised  arch, 

Beneath  whose  radiance  we'll  march; 

t 

A  web  of  raindrops  with  a  woof 

Of  sunbeams  forms  our  palace  roof 

Woven  into  a  rainbow's  aureole, 

Upon  high  Heaven's  stormful  loom; 

It  echoes  to  the  boding  soul 

A  forecast  of  a  double  doom, 

A  mishap  tuned  to  hope  and  happiness, 


152  CANTO    V— LINCOLN'S  MARCH. 

A  burn  which  blisters  but  to  bless, 
A  joy  transfigured  from  distress. 
Most  beautiful  celestial  wonder, 
Yet  built  on  black  infernal  thunder, 
Thou  hast  unlinked  the  lightning's  chain 
And  Heaven  freed  to  love  again." 

So  Lincoln  told  his  most  exalted  vein, 

And  far  fore-felt  his  inner  bent, 

The  working  of  presentiment; 

And  yet  he  had  another  outer  strain. 

Down  the  full-flowing  Sangamon 

The  soldiery  is  marching  on; 

The  Captain  halts  them  on  its  banks, 

And  bids  them  break  their  easy  ranks 

For  one  good  look  at  that  grand  stream, 

Which  wound  in  hope  around  each  heart, 

From  which  they  soon  will  have  to  part, 

Whose  flood  must  yet  be  plowed  by  steam, 

Uniting  with  the  world  their  county— 

And    that    all    held    their    greatest    future 

bounty. 

Stretching  his  arms  to  their  full  reach, 
Lincoln  could  not  hold  back  his  throbbing 

speech, 

He  made  it  echo  as  far  as  he  was  able: 
"The  Sangamon  is  navigable! 
That  is  my  creed's  first  text 
On  which  I'll  preach  this  day  and  next, 
Nor  can  I  well  forget  at  any  rate 


THROUGH    THE   PRAIRIE.  153 

I  am  a  legislative  candidate." 
But  when  he  had  intoned  this  note 

He   touched   the   thought  which  made   him 
dote: 

II  Behold  yon  flood,  will  it  not  float 
A  noble  Mississippi  boat?" 

All  shouted  low  approval,  for 
They  wanted  to  believe  their  orator; 
One  voice  alone  dared  lisp  a  doubt: 
"To-morrow  maybe  'twill  run  out." 
Lincoln  snapped  up  the  word  at  once : 
"Upon  a  time  there  was  a  dunce, 
Who  stood  beside  a  mighty  stream 
Which  swept  along  the  bank  so  fast 
He  thought  it  must  go  dry  at  last, 
And  so  he  waited  in  his  dream 
Till  he  could  step  across  at  will ; 
I  hear  that  he  is  waiting  still." 

That  hoisted  all  their  lungs  to  cheers, 
They  jabbed  the  doubter  with  their  jeers, 
When  Abe  again  bespoke  the  volunteers: 
"Let  us  no  more  the  future  borrow, 
That  loan  we  never  can  pay  back, 
Until  old  Time  runs  off  the  track, 
I  shall  not  wait  here  till  to-morrow. 
Forward — march  with  the  crest,  my  boys, 
The  lofty  crest  of  Sangamon, 
As  it  sweeps  ever  swirling  on 
Until  it  pours  into  the  Illinois 


154  CANTO    V— LINCOLN'S   MARCH. 

Which  to  the  Mississippi  flows — 
But  not  that  way  our  journey  goes, 
Here  let  my  watery  sermon  close." 
So  they  their  frothy  streamlet  followed 
Till  it  at  one  big  gulp  was  swallowed 
By  open  mouth  of  a  large  river-god, 
Who  bore  it  in  his  belly  like  pea  in  pod, 
And  seething  swam  southwestward  in  a  rage, 
But  ever  with  a  bigger  swagger  for  his  age. 
The  line  of  soldiers  crawls  again 
Across  the  flat-topped  grassy  plain; 
There  on  the  prairie  Time  stands  still 
And  suns  himself  at  his  sweet  will: 
He  checks  the  hurry  of  his  pace, 
For  he  has  found  his  happy  stopping  place, 
As  if  he  had  reached  the  end  of  his  long  race ; 
He  drops  his  hour-glass  by  his  side, 
And  lets  the  universe  just  slide; 
His  whetted  scythe  no  more  he  holds, 
But  lounges  o'er  the  greenery's  folds, 
So  that  the  prairie  seems  to  be 
Earth's  visible  eternity, 
Which  now  the  spring  has  flecked  with  flow- 
ers 

•Whirling  from  Heaven  in  sunny  showers 
Whose  drops  file  down  the  sky-built  arch 
Serried  in  a  rainbow  march. 

Anon  the  troops  come  to  a  wooded  plot, 
Quite  rounded  by  a  runnel  was  the  spot, 


THE   FUGITIVE   SLAVE-MOTHER.  155 

As  if  it  were  a  planted  flower  pot, 

In  which  the  eye  surprised  could  see 

The  red-lipped  blowth  of  the  appletree, 

And  wonder  how  that  miracle  could  be. 

A  little  wood-nymph  lives  just  there 

Who  scents  with  fragrance  all  the  air, 

Strewing  the  blossoms  in  her  hair, 

And  as  she  flits  along  her  track 

She  combs  the  curly  sunshine  down  her  back. 

Lincoln  looked  at  the  bloom  and  wondered, 

Its  place  from  man  so  far  was  sundered; 

That  perfume  too  stirred  up  another  sense 

Far  higher,  nobler  than  its  own, 

There  came  a  sense  of  Providence 

To  Lincoln  on  the  breezes  blown. 


II. 

At  last  upon  a  bluff  all  stood, 
And  watched  the  Mississippi's  flood 
Crawl  in  the  distance  serpentine 
From  out  the  North  and  through  the  South, 
Until  it  opes  its  many-throated  mouth 
Belching  itself  into  the  brine. 
They  see  it  form  a  double  boundary  line 
Between  two  States — a  motley  pair, 
Illinois  here,  Missouri  there- 
One  white,  the  other  somewhat  black; 
Both  lie  along  the  Elver's  track, 
And  through  its  windings  in  and  out 


156  CANTO    T— LINCOLN'S   MARCH. 

They  seem  to  wrestle  round  about 

Along  its  ever-roaring  route. 

Though  each  was  called  of  each  the  brother, 

Each  rushed  to  grapple  with  the  other, 

Though  neither  got  the  better, 

Each  forged  the  other's  fetter. 

And  as  the  Ulinoisans  gazed, 

They  of  a  sudden  were  amazed 

To  see  a  woman  enter  camp, 

A  negress  with  her  race's  stamp, 

And  yet  not  altogether  so 

For  she  was  mixed,  half-black  half -white, 

Dual  like  the  Great  Eiver's  flow, 

Two  races  she  faced  out  to  sight, 

Mulattoed  in  her  very  right ; 

And  on  her  back  shawled  up  in  state 

Peeped  forth  a  picaninny's  curly  pate. 

She  had  escaped  beyond  the  border 

And  crossed  the  stream  without  an  order : 

She  dared  break  through  that  double  River 

Which  prisoned  her  and  hers  forever — 

Double  it  was  as  her  own  birth, 

Still  she  resolved  the  bond  to  sever 

Asserting  her  sole  human  worth. 

Her  husband  had  been  gone  for  years — 

She  punctuated  words  with  tears— 

In  the  free  North,  she  knew  not  where, 

To  find  him  now  was  her  chief  care. 

And  they  would  sell  her  only  boy, 


THE   FUGITIVE   SLAVE-MOTHER. 

To  make  him  free,  that  was  her  joy; 

She  wished  herself  down  in  her  grave, 

If  she  must  mother  him  a  slave. 

The  soldiers  on  that  April  day 

Gathered  around  the  runaway, 

Some  shouted:  "Send  her  back! 

She  is  her  master's  own,  not  ours, 

Return  she  must,  by  all  the  Powers!" 

That  put  the  woman  on  the  rack. 

She  never  would  reverse  her  track 

Across  that  double  River, 

But  rather  in  its  waves  go  to  the  Giver; 

A  tear  welled  up  out  of  her  soul, 

And  down  her  bronzed  cheek  did  roll, 

Then  on  her  chin  it  hung  from  tufted  mole 

Where  it  would  catch  and  glisten, 

As  if  it  longed  to  listen. 

Then  others  said  :  *  *  That  will  not  do  ! 

It  would  to  Heaven  be  untrue, 

Let  her  be  free  like  me  and  you.  '  ' 


That  company  surged  up  divided 
And  as  the  Mississippi,  was  two-sided, 
By  this  one  slave  the  very  brain 
Seemed  of  a  sudden  cleft  in  twain; 
Each  part  was  getting  ready  for  a  tussle 
Which  might  come  to  the  test  of  muscle; 
But  Captain  Lincoln  stepped  up  to  the  front 
And  drew  his  sword,  as  was  his  wont, 
Then  on  the  spot  he  bade  his  band 


158  CANTO    V— LINCOLN'S   MARCH. 

To  form  in  line  at  his  command. 

Two  sides  among  his  folk  he  saw, 

Each  having  its  own  law, 

Two  sides  he  felt  within  his  breath 

Fighting  each  other  to  the  death. 

The  fugitive  into  his  tent 

With  stern  behest  he  ordered  sent, 

And  then  he  spoke  his  fast  intent: 

"Upon  this  case  you  are  divided, 

By  me  it  has  to  be  decided, 

But  not  just  now.     I  first  must  grow 

A  little  over  night, 

That  I  may  see  what's  right, 

Before  I  make  the  final  throw." 

Some  hostile  murmuring  there  was, 

But  Lincoln  dared  uphold  his  cause, 

Asserting  in  himself  the  law  of  laws, 

And  yet  forefeeling  in  this  little  clash 

The  fore- sent  throb  of  a  mightier  crash 

Between  the  passing  outer  right 

And  the  rising  inner  light. 

A  smooth-chinned  man  in  old  drab  suit 
Came  into  camp  to  sell  some  fruit, 
Potatoes  too  as  well  as  meat, 
Whatever  might  be  good  to  eat; 
His  milk  he  sold  unskimmed, 
His  hat  he  wore  broad-brimmed, 
He  never  failed  to  give  good  measure, 
And  at  the  deed  to  show  his  pleasure; 


THE  FUGITIVE   SLAVE-MOTHER. 


Lincoln  soon  marked  him  and  bethought: 

"Aye,  just  the  man  whom  I  have  sought, 

The  very  man  from  hence  to  take  her, 

A  lordly  conscienced  soul  —  a  Quaker— 

Who  never  will  in  fear  forsake  her. 

Forefathers  mine  were  Quakers  too, 

In  me  there  is  a  strain  of  that  same  view." 

Whereat  he  spake  unto  the  man, 

Concealing  in  deft  words  his  plan  : 

"Hurry  and  peddle  out  your  truck. 

Another  bargain  must  be  struck, 

For  which  I  wish  us  both  alone 

That  it  be  rightly  done." 

The  meek  disciple  of  George  Fox 

Stared  blank  as  if  he  were  an  ox, 

When  Lincoln  sobered  his  request 

Yet  hid  it  in  a  long-faced  jest: 

"Come  to  my  tent  when  you  are  through 

That  hat,  good  friend,  I  wish  to  buy  of  you, 

And  e'en  in  war  to  wear  it  too." 

Then  Abraham  goes  to  his  tent 

Alone,  but  in  deep  argument 

With  his  own  soul  upon  this  theme: 

"Am  I  awake,  or  do  I  dream? 

Is  this  world  real,  or  does  it  seem? 

I  feel  embattled  in  my  brain, 

Of  principles  two  armies  file 

And  fire  for  many  a  blazing  mile, 

Both  sides  are  fighting  might  and  main, 


160  CANTO    V— LINCOLN'S  MARCH. 

I  know  not  how  to  stand  the  strain. 

I  never  was  so  tempest-tossed, 

If  one  side  loses  I  am  lost, 

The  gain  of  either  is  my  cost. 

Against  the  Beds  my  men  agree, 

But  this  black  skin  splits  unity; 

And  as  this  camp,  so  too  this  State, 

So  too  this  Nation  separate, 

So  too  within  myself  the  rent — 

And  I  in  halves  of  self  am  hent. 

So  'tis  inside  me,  so  without, 

I  scarcely  know  what  I'm  about, 

In  me  this  camp,  this  State,  this  Nation 

Show  one  deep  yawning  separation." 

Thus  Lincoln  brooded  o'er  his  task, 

Nobody  there  he  dared  to  ask 

What  might  his  duty  be  in  this  decision, 

When  all  the  world  rasped  in  division, 

Too  stifling  'twas,  and  out  he  went 

And  strolled  in  thought  around  his  tent 

Which  now  was  the  high  firmament; 

The  distant  Mississippi's  flood 

Seething  he  saw  as  there  he  stood, 

And  felt  it  sympathetic  with  his  mood, 

Pulsing  his  heart's  own  plentitude: 

"You  struggling  Titan  of  a  stream, 
In  this  same  rift  to  me  you  seem — 
And  my  cleft  soul  is  yours,  I  deem, 
You  are  half -free  half-slave, 


THE  FUGITIVE   SLAVE-MOTHER.  161 

No  wonder  that  you  rave 

And  wrestle  with  yourself  in  strife 

Which  makes  eternal  war  your  life; 

The  wild  commotion  in  your  breast, 

Responds  to  mine  and  gives  no  rest; 

Free  here,  but  over  yonder  slave, 

The  battle  joins  just  in  your  wave, 

Both  sides  line  up  with  furious  clash, 

I  see  it  in  your  spray  and  splash. 

What  makes  this  turbid  pother? 

This  side  resists  the  other, 

Forbidding  any  slave  to  go 

Back  to  his  former  world  of  woe. 

That  tallies  with  my  heart's  command, 

By  it  I  now  shall  take  my  stand, 

This  woman  I  shall  not  send  back 

E'en    though    the    blood-hound    scents    her 

track ; 

I  shall  in  some  way  sneak  her  out 
Veiling  her  course  in  cloud  of  doubt. 
And  yet  I  feel  the  counter  stroke 
Which  I  within  myself  provoke, 
For  I  commit  a  violation 
Of  the  first  law  of  the  first  Nation: 
That  is  to  me  a  new  damnation." 
So  Lincoln  swayed  in  agitation 
Worse  than  the  Mississippi's  seething — 
You  could  hear  it  in  his  breathing; 
He  looked  around  as  if  for  aid 
In  that  stern  strife  which  two  laws  made, 

11 


1(52  CANTO    V— LINCOLN'S   MARCH. 

Conflicting  each  with  each 

And  stamping  on  his  heart  their  breach. 

He  saw  the  Quaker  toward  him  glide 

And  take  a  place  just  at  his  side, 

That  presence  was  a  comfort  to  his  spirit, 

As  if  his  own  he  did  inherit — 

An  inner  voice — and  he  did  hear  it; 

It  was  already  getting  dark 

While  to  the  man  he  whispered:  "Hark! 

I  fain  would  know  just  where  you  dwell; 

Describe  your  house  that  I  can  see  it  well 

So  as  to  find  it  or  its  place  re-tell ; 

And  let  me  hear  your  name. 

For  I  may  have  to  use  the  same." 

The  man  obeyed  the  strange  request, 

Just  now  it  seemed  what  was  the  best; 

For  Lincoln's  voice  became  the  inner 

Whose  hest  the  Quaker  heard, 

Which  if  he  scoffed,  he  was  the  sinner, 

And  so  he  quickly  spoke  the  word: 

"As  Quaker  Ellwood  I  am  known 

To  all  the  neighborhood  around, 

That  title  has  me  wholly  overgrown, 

Enwreathing  me  wherever  I  am  found — 

I  cannot  get  outside  its  sound. 

Upon  this  little  creek  I  dwell,    . 

Which  here  you   see  to  wander 

And  pour  into  the  River  yonder. 

With  ease  my  dwelling  you  can  tell, 


THE   FUGITIVE   SLAVE-MOTHER. 

Six  miles  due  east  it  comes  to  sight, 
A  weather  boarded  house  and  painted  white ; 
The  only  one  you  can  spy  out 
In  all  that  country  thereabout." 
"The  place  I  see  with  inner  eye, 
Could  go  to  it  if  I  should  try;" 
So  Lincoln  spake  his  satisfaction, 
And  then  enjoined  another  action, 
Which  would  require  a  bit  of  guile 
From  Quaker  Ellwood  for  a  while, 
And  which  to  him  was  somewhat  stunning, 
His  conscience  could  not  counterfeit  in  cun- 
ning, 

Though  Lincoln's  outside  seemed  but  fun- 
ning 

As  he  drew  down  his  crescent  lips, 
And  hung  a  joke  on  their  nether  tips: 
"Now  to  this  sapling  hitch  your  nags, 
And  in  your  wagon  spread  your  bags, 
I'll  send  you  home  with  a  new  load 
When  night  has  covered  all  your  road." 
The  sun  had  shot. his  final  gleam 
The  tired  camp  became  a  dream, 
Then  Ellwood  tickled  up  his  team, 
And  in  his  wagon  bed  there  lay, 
Crouched  on  some  tender  tufts  of  hay, 
Two  darkies  speeding  on  their  way; 
The  mother  and  her  picaninny  fleeing, 
Not  daring  to  be  seen  or  seeing, 
All  huddled  in  a  heap  of  rags, 
Could  not  be  told  from  farmer's  bags. 


164  CANTO    V— LINCOLN'S  MARCH. 

But  Lincoln  with  himself  was  far  from  one — 

The  stratagem  in  him  begot  no  fun, 

But  stabbed  him  inwardly  with  strife 

Which  cut  down  to  the  center  of  his  life : 

That  he  had  violated  law  he  knew; 

The  very  thought  kept  sawing  him  in  two, 

Well  had  he  read  the  Constitution, 

Against  it  now  he  turned  his  deed — 

This  shook  him  like  a  fragile  reed — 

He  loved  his  country's  institution, 

Which  had  become  his  being's  deepest  creed, 

But  with  him  now  it  disagreed, 

And  sent  deep  aching  discords  through  his 

soul 
Which  caused  him  all  the  night  to  coil  and 

roll 

In  furious  agony, 
Of  which  there  was  no  remedy 
To  medicine  him  free. 
And  so  he  wrestled  with  his  trouble — 
The  very  Law  in  him  turned  double, 
Like  the  Mississippi's  flood, 
Like  that  slave  mother's  blood — 
Two  Laws  were  fighting  in  his  heart, 
The  combatants  he  could  not  part, 
But  had  to  endure  from  each  the  blow; 
He  felt  of  each  the  victory, 
And  too  of  each  the  overthrow, 
All  of  himself  was  mutiny 
So  fell  at  times  he  almost  fainted; 


JACK  KELSO'S  CAESAR. 


But  with  the  Furies  he  became  acquainted 

The  Furies  of  the  age  and  yet  his  own, 

Which  in  himself  he  must  put  down 

And  in  his  country  to.o, 

Such  is  the  deed  he  has  to  do, 

If  with  this  trial  he  gets  through. 

But  for  a  while  he  had  a  spell, 

In  which  the  difference  he  could  not  tell 

Between  himself  and  Hell. 

III. 

The  struggle  lay  in  him  and  all  his  band, 

But  he  would  flee  from  it  to  story-land, 

And  take  his  company  along, 

Till  they  and  he  forgot  the  throng 

Of  far-away  presentiment, 

Which  seemed  to  come  to  them  downsent 

Shadowing    their    souls    with    aught    fore- 

meant. 

For  underneath  the  red  man's  battle 
Which  could  but  make  a  little  rattle, 
They  felt  a  deeper,  mightier  strife, 
In  which  there  was  the  fight  for  life. 
They  marched  quite  silent  till  the  sun 
Told  from  his  tower  that  day  was  done; 
When  they  their  evening  meal  had  taken, 
They  sat  around  as  if  forsaken, 
They  could  not  cast  away  their  gloom, 
But  seemed  to  be  awaiting  doom, 


166  CANTO    V— LINCOLN'S   MARCH. 

When     Lincoln     loudly     called,     "Where's 

Jack? 

Now  is  the  time  to  put  him  on  the  track, 
And  start  him  up,  with  spur  of  praise, 
To  trumpet  one  of  Shakespeare's  plays, 
And  make  the  mighty  lines  reverberate 
With  the  very  roll  of  fate. — 
Kelso,  declaimer  tragical, 
I  wish  to  hear  of  Caesar's  fall, 
Which  once  I  heard  thy  thunder  give 
That  I  did  die  with  him,  yet  live; 
His  murder  I  forefeel  today 
Far  more  than  then — I  know  not  why — 
But  that  is  nought — let's  have  the  play — 
I  want  to  see  great  Caesar  die." 

So  Lincoln  chooses  that  one  part 
As  if  it  would  extract  a  dart 
Outletting  his  foreboding  heart. 
Jack  needed  not  two  invitations; 
For  he  did  love  that  play's  orations, 
Which  suited  Lincoln's  lowering  mood, 
And  fed  his  soul  with  pensive  food. 
So  Kelso  mounted  on  a  cart 
With  Cassius'  speech  he  made  a  start; 
Conspiracy  of  lesser  men 
Against  the  greatest  one  he  then 
Set  forth  in  word  and  act  and  mien, 
Treading  alone  that  backwoods  scene. 
But  when  they  slew  their  mightiest  hero, 


JACK  KELSO'S  CAESAR. 


And  sought  to  make  his  work  a  zero 
'In  the  grand  stream  of  History, 
That  crowd  did  answer  with  a  cry: 
"The  dammed  black-hearted    traitors  —  spare 

none 

Let  me  get  at  them  with  my  gun." 
Jack  Kelso  made  all  feel  it,  by  his  art  — 
The  dagger's  point  in  Caesar's  heart; 
One  man  sprang  up  and  cocked  his  old  fu- 

see 

To  shoot  the  specters  of  that  tragedy  ; 
Then  Lincoln  fronted  them  to  say 
Holding  his  hand  aloft:  "Enough  today! 
Those  spooks  we  have  not  now  to  slay, 
We  soon  may  see  a  fleshier  fray; 
Not  with  old  Roman  long  since  dead 
We  war,  but  with  the  living  Red.  — 
My  Jack  well-done!  our  very  breath 
We  breathed  out  with  Caesar's  death; 
Not  yet  has  mine  got  back  to  me, 
I  cannot  speak  so  well,  you  see. 
Hereafter  we  shall  have  the  rest, 
And  you  must  voice  with  all  your  zest 
The  words  of  Shakespeare  tragical 
Shaped  in  your  action  magical. 
O  Shakespeare,  of  men  the  doomless 
Thy  folk  alone  seem  ever  tombless 
And  thou  thyself  in  time  art  dateless, 
Fate's  own  revealer  fateless.— 
But,  Jack,  tell  in  the  next  recital, 


CANTO   V—  LINCOLN'S  MARCH. 


Of  Caesar's  murder  the  fierce  requital, 

For  all  of  us  desire  to  see 

That  the  assassins  punished  be." 

Within  his  tent  then  Lincoln  slipped, 

His  soul  so  deeply  had  been  dipped, 

Into  the  blood  of  Julius  Great 

He  some-how  felt  that  self-same  fate 

Lurking  within  a  far-off  feeling 

Which  came  in  secret  o'er  him  stealmg, 

As  if  a  trance  against  his  will 

Made  in  his  heart  the  future  thrill. 

The  great  man  saw  he  fatefulest, 

Though  deemed  by  all  the  world  the  best. 

Inside  his  narrow  muslin  den 

He  lay,  while  around  him  snored  his  men 

Fore-done  with  marching  all  that  day 

Beneath  the  sunbeams  's  fervid  play 

Upon  the  flowering  month  of  May. 

Outstretched  he  rolled  upon  his  bed, 

With  one  coarse  blanket  overspread 

Upon  the  prairie's  mattress  green 

Which  spring  had  laid  for  him  unseen  ; 

His  head  might  feel  a  passing  jog 

Pillowed  upon  a  little  log; 

Over  head  he  heard  the  wild  goose  cackle, 

And  under  him  the  grasses  crackle 

As  he  lolled  round  upon  his  cot, 

And  could  not  sleep  a  jot. 

He  fell  into  remote  reflection 


JACK  KELSO'S   CAESAR. 

In  which  his  soul  roamed  this  direction: 
"The  hero's  good  is  blent  with  guilt, 
For  which  the  doer's  blood  is  spilt; 
Whereby  he  sheds  him  of  what's  mortal 
Just  at  eternity's  oped  portal; 
The  penalty  he  pays  for  his  great  deed, 
He  dies  to  win  undying  meed.  '  ' 


Thus  Lincoln  felt  the  stab  in  Caesar's  death 

So  tensely  that  he  gasped  for  breath, 

As  if  he  too  were  doomed  to  fall 

Slain  in  the  Capitol; 

And  at  the  blow  of  Casca's  dagger 

The  Captain  weened  himself  to  stagger, 

In  universal  sympathy 

Felt  with  the  great  man  's  tragic  due, 

And  from  that  fate-forecasting  revery 

Sleep,  the  Eeleaser,  could  not  set  him  free, 

But  the  fast  thought  would  soon  itself  renew 

That  what  once  was,  again  will  be: 

Such  cycle  inward  runs  and  outward  too. 

The  soldiers  rise  and  cook  their  meal 
When  rosy  dawn  has  lit  the  day, 
But  still  a  load  within  they  feel 
Which  somehow  will  not  pass  away; 
Each  has  a  secret  dread  insouled 
Which  will  not  let  itself  be  told. 
The  prairie  is  a  sphinx  today 
Changeless  as  time  in  its  huge  face, 


170  CANTO   V— LINCOLN'S  MARCH. 

Cannot  be  made  a  word  to  say, 
Silent  as  the  soul  of  space 
Untongued  throughout  the  universe. 
The  kerchiefed  clouds  wave  in  the  sky 
Some  flitting  fringes  to  the  eye 
As  if  they  meant  to  say  good-bye, 
And  leave  our  clay  to  its  own  curse. 
It  might  have  been  yet  even  worse 
Had  not  the  sun  when  he  rose  up, 
Let  drop  into  the  buttercup 
A  pretty  piece  of  his  own  sheen, 
And  left  a  little  laugh  upon  the  scene, 
Which   by   the   hundred   thousand   was    re- 
peated 
And     with     their     joy     the     heavy-hearted 

greeted ; 

To   them   were   joined    a   million   morning- 
glories 

All  choiring  everywhere  their  tiny  stories, 
And  so  the  prairie  Goddess  Flora  wooed 
In  love  that  melancholy  multitude. 

At  dusk  the  soldiers  reached  a  wood 
Which  by  a  flowing  streamlet  stood — 
Tired,  hungry  were  they,  and  depressed, 
Scant  too  they  had  become  of  food. 
They  did  not  feel  so  very  good 
As  they  prepared  for  nightly  rest. 
Just  then  to  camp  came  up  a  man 
Whose  features  they  could  barely  scan, 


JACK  KELSO'S  CAESAR. 


For  it  was  getting  somewhat  dark, 

His  skin  and  hair  they  did  not  mark. 

Thus  he  in  friendly  tone  began: 

"I  thought  that  you  might  need  some  meat, 

Your  appetite  I  would  here  greet 

With  prairie  chickens  and  some  quails, 

While  yonder  is  a  pile  of  rails 

With  which  we  soon  can  cook  a  feast, 

And  fill  the  biggest  belly  and  the  least." 

The  word  set  every  eye  to  bulging, 

The  man  kept  on  his  deed  divulging: 

"I  went  a-hunting  up  this  run, 

My  luck  was  good,  I  had  much  fun; 

With  soldier  boys  I  fain  would  share 

What  I  may  get  just  anywhere; 

Tomorrow  I  shall  do  the  same 

At  eve  shall  bring  to  you  more  game; 

I  note  you  all  are  getting  limber, 

Come,  let  me  prop  you  with  the  stomach's 

timber.  '  ' 

The  men  soon  gathered  round  the  blaze 
Each  ate  in  once  for  two  full  days, 
The  meal  seemed  Heaven's  timely  gift. 
Meanwhile  their  tongues  began  to  drift 
Backward,  and  talk  of  that  event 
Wherein  a  woman  slave  away  was  sent: 
It  echoed  yet  within  their  hearts, 
So  that  a  fresh  discussion  starts 
From  mouths  with  sated  appetites, 
Which  now  can  talk  of  wrongs  and  rights. 


172  CANTO    V— LINCOLN'S   MARCH. 

The  hunter  never  said  a  word, 

Yet  all  the  feelings  and  the  facts  he  heard, 

He  showed  it  not  if  he  within  was  stirred. 

But  when  the  camp  lay  in  its  deepest  snore 

And  dawn  was  taking  her  first  peep  before 

The  curtains  of  the  night. 

He  slid  off  in  Aurora's  light. 

IV. 

The  march  was  taken  up  next  morn, 

But  in  them  all  there  had  been  born 

A  conflict  clouding  every  mind 

And  it  they  could  not  leave  behind; 

It  marched  with  them  along  unbidden, 

Its  nightmare  had  them  all  beridden, 

The  ghost  could  not  somehow  be  hidden, 

Felt  rather  'twas  than  by  them  seen, 

Each  quizzed  himself,  what  could  it  mean? 

Sometimes  a  man  interrogated, 

Though  in  an  underbreath  quite  bated: 

"What  has  become  of  that  black  wench?" 

Lincoln  would  give  a  little  wrench, 

Then  smile:  "You  mean  the  matron  sable. 

Of  crafty  Reynard,  who  was  able 

His  fellow  animals  to  entertain 

With  their  own  follies  over  and  over  again 

Let  me  rehearse  a  little  fable 

In  his  own  foxy  vein." 

It  was  of  Bruin  stealing  honey 


THE    CAPTIVE    INDIAN. 


And  getting  caught  by  his  forepaws; 

The  thing  appeared  so  very  funny 

The  grumbler  soon  forgot  his  cause. 

So  a  refusal  Abe  would  cover 

In  merry  tale  and  smooth  it  over, 

Of  fableland  the  happy  rover. 

But  inwardly  he  did  not  laugh, 

He  always  felt  the  half-and-half 

Within  himself  and  country  too, 

Foreglimpsing  what  he  had  to  do; 

The  unseen  burden  weighed  him  down, 

Laden  upon  his  very  soul, 

Which  seemed  to  gloom  in  fortune  's  frown, 

The  stone  away  he  could  not  roll  ; 

But  when  he  refuged  in  a  story, 

The  sun  would  rise  -again  in  glory. 

The  troop  had  well  the  time  beguiled, 

Through  Mayday's  green  they  gaily  filed; 

'Twas  now  a  band  of  boisterous  jokers, 

On  whom  all  Nature  smiled, 

Though  with  a  face  somewhat  defiled, 

In  puffs  tobaccoed  by  those  smokers; 

And  hope  was  mountain  high  uppiled, 

E'en  if  there  were  some  croakers. 

Already  they  had  neared  the  spot 

Where  fair  Rock  River  joins  her  lot 

To  her  huge-bodied  lover, 

And  with  him  fondles  under  flowing  cover. 

Lincoln  was  lollinir  on  his  cot 


174  CANTO    V— LINCOLN'S   MARCH. 

Upholstered  with  lush  prairie  grass, 
When  suddenly  he  saw  a  human  mass 
Surging  an  Indian  round  about, 
With  many  a  curse  and  angry  shout 
Which  on  him  fell  a  very  shower, 
While  he  beneath  would  cower. 
The  captain  soon  among  them  stood, 
And  bade  them  stay  their  bloody  mood 
Until  the  redskin's  case  he  heard, 
Whom  now  he  told  to  speak  his  word. 
Trembling  old  Loo  reached  out  a  pass 
Which  had  been  signed  by  General  Cass 
Saying:  "This  Indian  I  can  commend, 
He  is  an  oft- tried  white-man's  friend; — 
Much  service  he  can  still  us  do — 
Treat  him  well,  for  he  is  true." 
When  Lincoln  read  the  little  note, 
There  rose  a  throbbing  in  his  throat, 
His  soul  was  growing  tender, 
Keturn  for  good  he  has  to  render 
Unto  that  wretched  red-skinned  mortal 
Now  facing  there  fate's  final  portal. 
Meanwhile  the  raging  multitude 
Lusted  to  let  his  hapless  blood; 
A  big  frontierman  stepped  up  to  the  fore, 
A  dagger  in  his  belt  he  wore, 
His  rifle  on  his  arm  he  bore; 
His  spittle  with  his  speech  he  sputtered 
So  madly  swashed  his  tongue, 
His  words  in  hissing  bits  he  spluttered 


THE    CAPTIVE    INDIAN.  175 

Screeching  out  of  his  topmost  lung: 
"Why  have  we  come  from  home  so  far? 
Why  are  we  going  now, to  war? 
This  fellow's  kin  are  those  we  fight, 
Here  we  have  him  in  our  might; 
'As  he  and  his  have  done  to  us  and  ours, 
So  we  shall  pay  him  back,  by  all  the  powers ! 
Our  business  is  the  Reds  to  slay 
We  might  as  well  begin  today; 
The  sooner  thus  will  end  the  fray. 
An  Indian  pierced  my  father  with  his  dart, 
I  feel  that  arrow  quivering  in  my  heart, 
And  riving  me  with  ceaseless  pain, 
Till  I  pay  back  the  heinous  deed 
And  wash  away  the  bloody  stain 
By  blood — that  is  my  creed." 
All  shouted  to  that  speech:  "Agreed." 

The  captain  listened  to  the  vengeful  word, 
And  in  his  soul  felt  deeply  stirred, 
To  him  the  same  hap  had  occurred— 
Grandfather  Lincoln  by  an  Indian  killed, 
His  own  ancestral  blood  in  ambush  spilled : 
That  bullet  oft  would  riot  in  his  brain, 
And  now  it  seemed  to  bob  again, 
And  to  a  red  revenge  him  thralled 
Until  his  higher  self  recalled 
The  image  of  the  kind  old  wanderer 
Who  him  of  vengeance  had  once  freed 
By  planting  just  one  little  seed, 


176  CANTO    V— LINCOLN'S  MARCH. 

Whose  growth  failed  not  his  heart  to  stir. 
So  Abraham  stood  balancing  the  strife 
Which  in  himself  had  risen  up  to  life, 
The  borderer's  fierce  fury  fought 
Upon    an    inner    battle    field    his    new-won 

thought ; 

His  soul  he  saw  in  twain  divided, 
Tetering  with  itself  two-sided! 
But  while  he  for  a  moment  swayed, 
Another  pioneer  had  drawn  his  blade 
His  vengeful  feud  in  wrath  to  wreak, 
While    tears     streamed    down    his    burning 

cheek : 

"An  Indian  scalped  my  brother  at  the  plow 
An  Indian's  scalp  in  turn  I  shall  take  now." 
Loo  cowered  under  Lincoln's  arm 
Which  soon  he  saw  to  be  his  shield  from 

harm, 

Whence  he  a  little  speech  did  make: 
"I  have  come  hither  for  your  sake; 
My  people  hate  me  as  the  white  man's 

friend, 

The  whites  now  hate  me  and  my  life  will  end, 
Because  my  skin  is  red; 
Kill  me,  I  wish  that  I  were  dead." 
He  even  stretched  out  then  his  neck, 
But  Lincoln  held  them  all  in  check, 
And  told  the  Eed  he  should  be  heard 
If  still  he  wished  to  speak  a  word. 
Then  heightened  up  his  head  old  Loo, 


THE    CAPTIVE   INDIAN.  177 

His  eyes  beamed  glances  that  shot  through 

The  seething  stormy  multitude 

Which  sought  to  let  his  blood; 

His  coppery  face  gleamed  to  a  golden  hue: 

"One  word  is  all  I  ask  to  say, 

To  serve  you  wander  I  today; 

Whatever  you  may  do  to  me, 

Revengeful  I  shall  never  be, 

But  serve  you  still,  though  you  me  slay." 

Then   Lincoln   stepped  before   the  uplifted 

knife 

To  save  the  loyal  red  man's  life, 
The  angry  crowd  he  dared  disperse 
Although  he  got  their  curse, 
And  when  away  they  had  been  sent, 
He  bade  old  Loo  come  to  his  tent. 
There  they  in  confidence  could  speak, 
The  captain  would  the  secret  seek 
Which  Loo  had  dimly  intimated 
In  the  few  words  he  had  just  stated. 
But  what  far  more  stirred  Lincoln's  interest 
Was  the  strange  faith  which  Loo  professed ; 
Let  ill  betide,  he  did  the  right, 
And  never  would  a  wrong  with  wrong  re- 
quite. 

A  chapter  new  that  seemed  to  be 
Of  Indian  theology, 

Which  Lincoln  hitherto  had  never  known, 
Strangely  it  sounded  somewhat  his  own, 

12 


178  CANTO    V— LINCOLN'S   MARCH. 

If  lie  could  be  himself  alone. 
When  both  had  settled  in  the  tent, 
Old  Loo  took  up  again  the  argument: 
Alone  he  had  far  wandered  forth 
Away  from  home  up  in  the  North. 
All  of  his  kin  but  him  went  out  to  aid 
The  furious  Hawk  in  bloody  raid, 
When  they  the  Whites  had  slain  or  driven 

out, 

They  planned  to  wheel  about, 
Return  and  kill  good  Keokuk, 
The  settlers'  best  red  friend, 
Whose  cause  he  never  once  forsook, 
Though  his  own  folk  he  might  offend. 
"To  Keokuk,"  said  Loo,  "I  go, 
To  tell  him  all  that  I  may  know; 
For  jealous  Black  Hawk  seeks  his  place 
Will  be  the  chief  of  tribe,  of  race, 
His  foes,  both  white  and  red  efface. ' ' 
Further  Loo  spake  within  that  tent 
To  Lincoln's  great  astonishment: 
"Captain,  you  see  I  am  unarmed, 
Long,  long  it  is  since  I  have  harmed 
A  human  being,  red  or  white, 
Nor  do  I  ever  fight 
Or  shed  one  drop  of  blood, 
I  try  to  do  both  races  good, 
Passing  from  one  side  to  the  other, 
And  every  man  I  hold  to  be  a  brother. 
That's  not  the  Indian's  way,  I  know, 


THE    CAPTIVE    INDIAN.  179 

Nor  white  man's  either,  though  he  says  so, 

Declaring  such  to  be  his  creed, 

But  very  different  is  his  deed. 

I  strive  to  stop  disorder, 

And  keep  the  peace  upon  this  border, 

Soothing  the  strife  between  your  skin  and 

mine 

That  both  may  dwell  together  on  this  line : 
Such  thought  I  learned  of  a  wandering  man, 
To  plant  his  seeds  was  all  his  plan, 
His  face  was  white  though  good  he  said, 
I  say  the  same — my  face  is  red. 
Let  me  now  tell  in  brief  my  creed — 
I  am  the  Indian  Johnny  Appleseed." 

Lincoln  sprang  up  at  that  strange  name, 
He  thought  that  he  had  heard  the  same 
Far  off  in  his  old  home, 
When  on  his  flatboat  he  did  roam. 
But  hark!  around  his  tent's  low  door 
The  noise  is  louder  than  before; 
Again  the  raving  multitude 
Clamors  for  the  red  devil's  blood — 
The  threats  are  getting  warm 
When  to  the  middle  of  that  storm 
Leaps  Lincoln's  stalwart  form: 
"This  Indian  is  our  friend  and  good, 
He's  not  of  Black  Hawk's  savage  brood" 
Whereat  the  entire  rout 
Sends  up  a  maddening  shout: 


180  CANTO   V— LINCOLN'S  MARCH. 

11  Indian  good,  Indian  dead — 

It  is  the  white  against  the  red." 

That  proverb  of  the  pioneer 

Is  spoken  along  the  whole  frontier, 

The  traveler  can  still  it  hear. 

The   Captain   sprang   aback   and   drew   his 

sword, 

Sword  of  the  Eutledges, 
To  serve  him  in  his  sorest  stress, 
And  thus  he  spake  a  forceful  word 
While  from  his  weapon's  point  a  spark 
Shot  out  which  every  eye  did  mark: 
"Whoever  injures  that  poor  fugitive, 
Shall  do  the  wrong  when  I  no  longer  live, 
Upon  my  corpse  you  must  step  first — 
I  dare  you  do  your  worst." 

Whereat  his  eye  flashed  out  more  keen 
Than  any  falchion  ever  seen, 
It  was  a  sword — sword  of  the  spirit 
Which  in  himself  he  did  inherit, 
And  all  his  life  he  had  to  wear  it. 
But  when  the  crowd  let  him  alone, 
His  speech  turned  to  a  milder  tone. 
"Grandfather  mine,  by  an  Indian   slain, 
Comes  up  to  me  in  blood  again, 
But  if  you  try  what  you  have  said, 
Fate  bids  me  perish  for  the  red, 
Though  I  am  white  like  you, 
First  to  myself  I  shall  be  true." 


THE    CAPTIVE    INDIAN. 


Quite  ended  had  the  wild  ado, 

But  Lincoln  felt  himself  not  through, 

A  word  now  seemed  to  be  in  season 

Which  would  from  force  appeal  to  reason 

"This  man,  I  say,  is  innocent, 

I  shall  protect  him  in  my  tent, 

He  has  no  weapon,  gun  or  knife, 

And  now  he  risks  for  us  his  life; 

He  bears  a  message  to  our  Indian  friend, 

The  sage  Sauk  chief,  good  Keokuk, 

Whose  eloquence  would  Black  Hawk  fend 

From  ways  of  war  without  forelook; 

To  do  his  task  I  shall  him  send, 

And  bid  Godspeed  the  happy  end." 

Here  Lincoln  stopped;  the  silent  crowd 

Though  in  the  sullens,  still  was  cowed, 

When  he,  his  blade  still  hilted  in  his  hand, 

Gave  with  stern  eye-shot  this  command  : 

"I  call  for  five  men  good  and  brave 

Who  dare  me  help  this  red-skin  save, 

Conducting  him  across  yon  river, 

That  he  his  message  may  deliver, 

With  friendly  Keokuk  may  talk, 

The  sage  old  chief  of  Fox  and  Sauk.  '  ' 

When  he  had  spoken  well  the  word, 

He  scabbarded  his  sword. 

Five  trusty  soldiers  soon  were  found 

With  loaded  guns  and  knives  well  ground, 

Were  a  determined  little  band, 

Would  carry  out  the  just  command. 


182  CANTO    V— LINCOLN'S   MARCH. 

But  to  escape  the  ugly  plight, 
They  took  the  cover  of  the  night, 
And  crept  along  to  the  river  wide 
Upon  whose  shore  they  found  a  skiff, 
Which  bore  the  Bed  to  the  other  side, 
Where  soon  he  slipped  behind  the  cliff; 
Giving  his  guard  a  grateful  look 
He  turned  his  face  toward  Keokuk, 
Whom  he  would  save  from  bloody  hate 
Forewarning  him  of  Indian  fate, 
Which  also  over  Loo  hung  down 
And  flung  upon  him  many  a  frown, 
But  could  not  catch  him  in  its  grip, 
So  it  would  always  let  him  slip. 
And  yet  between  two  fires  stood  Loo 
Blazing  from  whites  and  red  men  too; 
Hated  he  was  by  his  own  kin 
As  renegade  to  his  red  skin; 
Suspected  by  the  paler  sort  of  face, 
He  never  won  the  way  of  grace, 
He  too  embodied  tragedy  of  race. 

But  who  is  this  who  brings   some  needed 

game? 

The  hunter  'tis  without  a  name; 
He  comes  between  the  day  and  darkening, 
And  does  this  eve  much  barkening; 
He  hears  the  soldiery's  ado 
He  sees  the  Captain  save  old  Loo, 
And      seems      o'ermastered     through     and 

through 


THE    CAPTIVE    INDIAN. 


By  something  to  him  new. 

Still  he  prepares  again  the  meal 

Though  absent-minded  oft  in  act, 

Self-occupied  with  some  deep  fact; 

He  lets  the  camp  its  heart  reveal 

While  he  his  own  doth  more  conceal; 

But  when  young  daylight  is  unvailing  night, 

The  stranger  too  fleets  out  of  sight; 

Still  he  had  seen  the  conflict  of  the  races 

In  its  full  swirl  mid  these  white  faces, 

And  he  had  heard  of  that  slave-  wife 

Who  with  her  child  had  roused  a  racial  strife  ; 

That  taps  his  heart  with  latent  feeling  rife. 

The  hunter  will  not  come  again, 

Since  he  has  heard  enough 

To  start  in  him  another  strain, 

For  a  new  life  he  gets  the  stuff; 

All  went  quite  opposite  to  what  he  willed, 

But  just  the  mightier  it  was  fulfilled; 

That  Captain  showed  the  power  to  mediate 

Of  coming  time  the  froward  fate 

Which  lurks  deep  down  in  racial  hate. 

"Twice,"  said  the  hunter,  "has  he  shown  the 

vision 

To  solve  man's  ultimate  collision; 
To  me  and  mine  I  see  his  far  outreach, 
Within  myself  heals  nature's  breach; 
Still  I  must  go  and  take  the  word 
Unto  my  former  faithful  friends, 
Telling  them  what  I've  seen  and  heard, 
And  so  I'll  try  to  make  amends." 


184  CANTO   V— LINCOLN'S  MARCH. 

V. 

It  was  the  middle  of  the  night, 

But  Lincoln  could  not  shut  his  sight, 

Although  he  forced  his  eyes  to  close 

His  darkest  nature  to  the  surface  rose, 

Down  laden  with  three  races'  throes 

Which  he  could  feel  in  his  own  woes. 

So  her  most  melancholy  thread 

Clotho  kept  spinning  through  his  head; 

And  as  he  lay  in  hopeless  mood 

A  form  stooped  through  the  door  and  stood, 

In  its  faint  glint  the  moonshine  drew 

The  outline  of  a  face  he  knew 

And  softened  its  benignant  look 

Until  a  heavenly  glance  it  took. 

Lincoln  jumped  up,  it  seized  and  shook, 

Then  said  "Well,  well,  you  are  no  spook, 

But  man  alive  among  us  men; 

I  can't  dig  out  the  where  or  when, 

But  I  have  met  you  once  before 

Upon  this  shifting  earthly  shore." 

To  Lincoln  spake  that  ghostly  form 

Which  breathed  its  word  from  body  warm : 

"Thou  hast  already  seen  my  face, 

And  more  than  once  I've  found  thy  trace, 

Thee  have  I  kept  in  mind 

As  one  for  future  work  designed ' 

After  the  stamp  of  Providence 

Who  marks  his  early  instruments. 

Upon  my  fruit  well  hast  thou  thriven, 


THE    STRANGER. 


Along  the  way  it  fell  God-given 

To  you  and  all  your  soldiery, 

From  what  appeared  a  forest  tree; 

You  wondered  much  how  that  could  be." 

Then  Lincoln  rose  up  to  his  feet 

As  if  he  would  a  benefactor  greet: 

"You  are  the  man  who  did  that  deed, 

Planting  the  mothering  earth  with  fruitful 

seed  — 

You  are  the  one  whom  I  most  wish  to  meet; 
With  such  example  I  would  plant  my  soul 
To  see,  if  in  Time's  onward  roll 
It  too  would  bear  a  little  crop 
Or  if  its  growth  in  me  would  stop." 
The  pallid  phantom  then  turned  red, 
And  smiling  to  the  youth  he  said  : 
"Today  I  have  well  noted  thee 
Saving  from  death  the  guiltless  man, 
E'en  though  he  was  an  Indian, 
And  letting  him  in  peace  go  free. 
That's  the  worthiest  fruit  of  me, 
If  I  dare  deem  it  mine, 
For  it  is  also  thine. 
More  than  my  trees,  my  deeds  I  plant 
Supplying  a  far  deeper  want 
Than  any  hunger  of  the  flesh, 
Which  always  troubles  us  afresh, 
And  never  can  be  satisfied, 
Though  every  day  it  must  be  tried. 
Myself  as  whole  I  would  impart, 


186  CANTO    V— LINCOLN'S   MARCH. 

My  thought,  and  deeper  still,  my  heart : 
That  is  the  sowing  which  I  seek  to  speed, 
Which  stills  the  deepest  human  need 
With  the  universal  deed." 

On  Lincoln's  head  his  hand  he  laid 

Though  it  was  no  caressing, 

Upward  he  looked  as  if  he  prayed, 

And  gave  the  youth  his  blessing: 

"The  other  day  I  saw  thee  too, 

When    the    black    mother    thou    didst    pull 

through, 

To  thy  far  threatening  danger, 
Although  a  slave  she  was  and  stranger. 
That  was  thy  great  prophetic  act 
Which  is  to  be  the  eternal  fact. 
Thy  land  itself  thou  shalt  set  free 
And  give  a  race  its  liberty. 
Twins  are  thy  deeds  well  mated, 
The  red  and  black  thou  hast  emancipated 
In  this  brief  march  of  thine : 
I  see  in  it  a  vast  design." 
Lincoln  stood  gazing  in  that  face 
While  he  bethought  himself  apace, 
Then  showed  the  man  a  little  book 
Which  he  from  his  breast  pocket  took: 
"This  was  thy  gift  I  now  recall, 
But  of  thy  giving  'twas  not  all; 
Thy  wayside  tree  gave  food  and  rest, 
But  that  was  not  of  thine  the  best, 


THE    STRANGER.  187 

It  is  thy  self  thou  didst  present 

To  me  in  that  New  Testament." 

The  man  still  had  a  word  to  say 

Before  he  went  away: 

1  'Thou  must  yet  do  for  every  slave 

What  thou  just  now  hast  done ; 

Before  thou  sleepest  in  thy  grave, 

To  all  thou  hast  to  raise  the  one: 

That  is  to  be  thy  life, 

Yet  not  without  the  strife, 

But  what  most  deeply  felt  thou  hast  today 

Is  this:  thy  country's  law  is  too  in  chains, 

Which   thou   must   cleave   mid   groans    and 

pains, 

E'en  though  thou  break  it  on  the  way; 
For  now  the  law's  own  violation 
Forefronts  the  right's  emancipation; 
In  that  slave  woman  was  enslaved 
The  Constitution,  which  thou  hast  braved; 
It  too  thou  shalt  of  bonds  set  free— 
Thy  greatest  gift  to  all  posterity, 
Forecasting  universal  liberty." 

Startled  to  sudden  shiver  was  the  youth, 
Though  in  the  depths  he  felt  the  dreamy  truth 
Of  that  prodigious  prophecy, 
Whose  burden  crushed  him  with  its  pregnant 

thought, 

Until  relief  welled  up  unsought 
In  tear  drops  from  his  eye. 


188  CANTO   V— LINCOLN'S  MARCH. 

At  last  he  spoke:  "Not  yet,  my  man! 
To  that  I  have  to  grow 
E'en  if  I  think  it  may  be  so, 
And  glimpse  at  times  the  coming  plan, 
Which  seems  to  widen  limits  national 
Till  they  include  the  races  all." 
The  shape  stood  silent  for  a  while, 
Then  stamped  upon  his  words  a  smile: 
"Bed  Keokuk  I  also  know, 
He  has  what  I  bestow, 
Somewhat  I  planted  in  his  spirit, 
Whoso  him  hears  may  hear  it ; 
If  he  should  fall  into  thy  might, 
Spare  him — he  will  do  the  right. 
But  now  I  have  to  go, 
Tomorrow  has  some  work  to  do; 
Again  thee  shall  I  somewhere  see, 
And  tell  thee  more — so  mote  it  be." 
Ere  Lincoln  could  pick  up  his  sight, 
The  man  had  vanished  into  night. 

VI. 

Time  has  outtold  the  minutes  dreary 

Of  secret  nagging  night, 

And  dropped  the  last  into  the  rising  sun, 

Whose  radiant  peep  has  just  begun 

To  make  the  sombre  earth  more  cheery 

With  its  Titanic  laugh  of  light, 

Which  wakens  the  whole  world  of  sight — 

No  longer  nature  nods  foredone. 


JACK    KELBO'B    RICHARD    THE    THIRD.    189 

The  crescent  upper  disc  of  Sol 

Is  shooting  straight  across  the  prairie's  roll 

With  fiery  cannonade  of  beams, 

Over  the  grass  its  leveled  blaze 

Is  pouring  forth  in  golden  rays; 

Waging  a  kind  of  war  it  seems 

Against  the  withering  dragons  of  the  night, 

Which  it  must  daily  put  to  flight, 

To  cleanse  of  death  the  outer  air 

And  cure  the  inner  world's  despair. 

So  now  we  fantasy  the  sun 

In  war  to  wear  his  gun. 

The  soldiers  stayed  in  camp  that  day, 
Grumbling  the  heavy  hours  away, 
Sulking  in  groups  they  stood  around 
Little  the  pleasure  now  they  found, 
In  merry  prank  and  joke  and  tale; 
The  soldier's  life  has  gotten  stale, 
And  in  each  soul  a  sullen  mood 
Of  melancholy  seems  to  brood. 
Vengeance  against  the  Indian  Loo 
Is  thrilling  still  their  bosoms  through, 
And  making  them  its  passioned  thrall, 
Nor  do  they  spare  the  Captain  tall 
Who  from  their  hands  had  saved  a  Bed — 
That  was  the  worst  that  could  be  said. 
Lincoln  himself  felt  his  eclipse 
And  thought  to  try  some  of  his  quips, 
Or  set  to  work  a  merry  story, 


190  CANTO    V— LINCOLN'S  MARCH. 

But  now  it  paled  its  former  glory; 

However  hard  he  sought  the  word  to  fit 

He  could  not  make  a  single  hit, 

And  somehow  his  best  anecdote 

"Would  catch  and  stick  down  in  his  throat, 

Without  the  cracker  at  the  end, 

Though  all  his  brain-fire  he  would  spend; 

The  nub  might  snap  a  little  sizzle 

But  soon  it  sputtered  in  a  fizzle. 

He  even  tried  to  tell  the  hero 

Who  made  himself  at  Troy  a  zero 

Through  wrath's  revenge  long,  long  ago; 

Still  the  narration  would  drag  slow, 

And  never  could  be  made  to  flow, 

Though    'twas  the  greatest  tale  of  all  the 

ages, 

And  lit  the  centuries'  poetic  pages. 
But  never  got  he  to  the  middle, 
Stopped  by  a  sudden  silent  No 
Which  seemed  his  tongue  to  overthrow, 
And  turn  the  story  to  a  riddle. 

Then  soon  a  cry  was  upward  sent : 
' '  That  sort  of  yarn  for  us  is  fagging, 
Open  the  clack-box  of  the  regiment, 
Let's  hear  again  Jack  Kelso's  bullyragging; 
Of  thunder- words  he  gets  the  very  crack, 
Of  spouting  Shakespeare  he  knows  the  knack, 
The  best  of  all  we  like  his  clack." 
Lincoln  agreed  with  just  this  view, 


JACK    KELSO'S    RICHARD     THE    THIRD. 


But  had  another  thing  at  heart, 

For  he  assigned  a  drama  new 

To  Kelso  for  a  tragic  part; 

"Richard  the  Third  is  now,"  quoth  he, 

'  '  The  very  man  we  ought  to  see, 

The  lore  too  which  we  ought  to  learn; 

Come,  do  us,  Kelso,  this  good  turn." 

Jack  played  that  crookback  of  a  scamp 

Till  shivers  ran  through  all  the  camp, 

He  gave  the  speeches  with  a  detonation 

Which  set  the  prairie  in  vibration  ; 

And  one  might  hear  the  echo  of  that  roar 

Along  the  torted  Mississippi  shore, 

Reverberating  thousand  fold 

Demonic  sneers  of  Gloster  bold. 

Vengeance  his  word,  vengeance  universal  — 

Which  raved  and  hissed  through  that  rehear- 

sal, 

As  if  the  dragons  huge  of  a  cyclone 
With  angry  coils  and  twists  contrary 
Uprose  and  grappled  on  the  prairie 
In  hideous  howl  and  mournful  moan, 
Which  ended  in  a  dying  groan. 
Richard  destroying  all  his  foes, 
And  even  his  own  nearest  kin, 
Blood-spotted  through  the  drama  goes, 
Ever  wading  deeper  in 
Until  he  came  to  Bosworth  Field, 
Where  he  in  battle  had  to  yield, 
By  that  day's  vengeance  overthrown, 


192  CANTO   V— LINCOLN'S  MARCH. 

And  so  in  turn  lie  got  his  own. 
His  demon's  deed  was  done  to  brother, 
As  well  as  many  another, 
So  each  man  saw  his  bloody  counterpart: 
Such  was  the  height  of  Kelso's  art; 
Unto  that  camp  he  showed  its  very  heart, 
And  held  it  up  with  vengeance  quivering, 
So  that  he  set  all  bosoms  shivering 
In  dread  response,  although  unwilling; 
For  each  could  see  himself  just  by  that  play 
His  brother's  blood  in  spirit  spilling, 
Through  what  had  happened  only  yesterday. 
And  each  had  caught  the  deeper  creed : 
Man  ever  must  get  back  his  deed, 
Though  it  may  cycle  round  the  universe, 
At  last  it  comes  for  better  or  for  worse; 
According  to  the  life  he  lives 
The  even  recompense  it  gives. 
In  silent  rue  the  men  pass  to  their  station 
With  sting  of  keenest  human  evil, 
For  they  had  seen  their  very  incarnation 
In  Richard  Crookback's  ugly  devil; 
Each  recognized  his  hideous  counterfeit, 
And  tried  to  run  away  from  it; 
Each  heard  his  diabolic  scoff, 
When  Lincoln  dared  to  hold  him  off 
From  slaying  innocent  old  Loo, 
Because  the  skin  showed  red  to  view; 
It  turned  a  time  of  deep  self-seeing 
When  every  soul  glimpsed  its  own  naked  be- 
ing. 


JACK    KELSO'S    RICHARD    THE    THIRD.    193 

At  last  the  sun  withdraws  his  beams 

And  drops  his  head  upon  the  pillowed  West, 

Worn  with  his  day's  o'erarching  quest; 

To  imitate  the  sun  the  soldier  seems, 

And  weary  lies  down  to  his  rest. 

But  he  repeats  in  sleep  the  frenzied  dreams 

Of  Kichard's  conscience  ghost-oppressed, 

Yet  showing  of  him  what  was  best, 

For  he  a  dream  can  still  repent 

Of  all  his  waking  devilment. 

More  than  ten  thousand  Indians  with  their 

yell, 
Those  shadows  stirred  that  band  to  fear  of 

Hell; 
Such  was  the  might  of  Shakespeare's  word 

dramatic, 

Though  voiced  by  backwoods  Kelso  the  er- 
ratic. 


13 


Canto  H>txtf). 


BLACK  HAWK'S  MARCH. 
I. 

Full-flooded  seethed  the  Iowa 
Around  its  winding  banks  that  day 
When  all  of  Black  Hawk's  band  set  out 
The  white  intruder  to  expel ; 
It  was  of  Beds  a  furious  rout, 
Each  heart  aflame  in  passion's  Hell. 
The  turbid  river  hissed  and  boiled 
As  it  ran  through  its  channel  coiled; 
It  sought  its  bound  of  shores  to  swallow 
And  turn  inside  that  outside  hollow ; 
It  seemed  a  mighty  water- snake 
Which  would  in  ever-wriggling  wrath  retake 
The  earth  into  its  body  yellow, 
And  gave  at  every  crook  a  bellow. 
(194) 


THE    DEPARTURE.  195 

But  now  along  its  banks  in  angry  swell 
An  Indian  stream  runs  parallel 
Which  also  seeks  with  raging  blood 
To  reach  the  Mississippi  flood, 
And  crossing  it  somehow  flow  back 
Along  an  ever-westering  track, 
And  thence  the  sunset  steps  retrace 
Imprinted  by  a  fleeing  race. 
Looking  upon  that  turbulent  throng, 
Which  past  him  surged  the  way  along, 
Stood  in  reflection  steeped  Black  Hawk 
Who  there  within  himself  began  to  talk : 

"My  blood  no  longer  skips  in  fun 

Tingling  in  every  limb  to  start  and  run 

But  it  begins  to  slow  its  speed, 

And  loiters  doing  the  daring  deed. 

The  rounding  years  three  score  and  five 

Since  I  in  time  was  born, 

Have  left  me  hardly  half  alive, 

And  getting  more  forlorn; 

Still  I  must  rouse  myself  once  more 

And  be  the  warrior  as  of  yore, 

Do  better  than  I  ever  did  before. 

The  white  man's  progress  I  must  stay 

And  hurl  him  back  to  whence  he  started, 

Back  to  the  ray  of  rising  day, 

With  whose  quick  flashes  he  has  westward 

darted 
Unto  the  Mississippi's  shore 


196    CANTO  VI— BLACK  HAWK'S  MARCH. 

From  the  far  Ocean's  roar. 

The  Redskin's  ever-flinching  flight 

I  shall  bend  round  with  might, 

Shall  make  his  white-skinned  foemen  run 

And  leap  headlong  into  the  Sun, 

To  be  forever  out  of  sight, 

Where  it  first  lifts  its  head  from  night. 

Old  Keokuk  I  shall  defy 

With  all  his  gloomy  prophecy, 

Who  weens  the  Indian  doomsday  nigh 

If  we  dare  see  our  former  dwelling  place, 

And  spend  upon  our  father's  graves  a  sigh. 

Let  come  the  death  of  all  our  race 

Just  now,  if  we  must  further  fly ; 

Then  face  about,  Black  Hawk — and  die." 

'Twas  with  himself  he  held  this  talk — 

Dreamy,  dissatisfied  Black  Hawk; 

Ambition  gave  him  no  repose, 

And  ever  stabbed  him  with  its  throes, 

For  Keokuk  the  place  had  won 

Of  highest  tribal  dignity, 

And  had  his  rival  too  outshone 

In  eloquence 's  chieftaincy. 

Still  Black  Hawk  held  fast  to  his  scheme, 

Would  realize  his  savage  dream: 

Two  centuries  he  would  reverse, 

Back  into  chaos  them  immerse; 

As  he  bethought  his  past  career 

He  lisped  into  his  own  self's  ear: 


THE    DEPARTURE.  197 

"My  youthful  ardor  was  so  keen, 

I  went  to  war  before  sixteen, 

A  tribal  foe  as  boy  I  slew, 

And  home  I  brought  the  trophy  too. 

Next  with  the  Cherokees  I  fought, 

And  from  the  field  new  honors  brought, 

But  my  good  father  Pyesa 

Fell  in  the  bloody  fray, 

Vengeance  I  feel  down  to  this  day. 
Kaskaskias  and  Chippewas, 

Osages  and  the  lowas 

I  helped  obliterate, 

And  carried  out  the  red  man's  fate 

To  be  by  his  own  race  destroyed — 

Which  Keokuk  has  so  annoyed. 

Then  reached  our  Eiver  the  American, 

The  curse  of  curses  for  the  Indian — 

The  devil  is  he  'gainst  whom  I  plan. 

He  cut  in  pieces  our  one  soil, 

And  shared  it  out  to  his  white  kin 

Who  everywhere  came  streaming  in ; 

Then  he  himself  would  even  toil 

And  leave  at  home  his  idle  squaw : 

Whoever  heard  of  such  a  law?" 

While  thus  Black  Hawk  alone  stood  musing, 

The  priest  Francesco  was  not  losing 

His  outlook  on  the  circumstances, 

But  ready  was  to  seize  all  chances. 

He  slipped  up  to  his  moodful  friend, 

Perchance  advice  in  time  to  lend, 


198         CANTO   VI— BLACK  HAWK'S  MARCH. 

At  least  some  moments  well  to  spend, 
Which  might  the  Indian  keep  aright 
When  foamed  the  crisis  at  its  height. 
First  Black  Hawk  tongued  the  waiting  word 
With  savage  compliments  before  unheard: 

' '  A  Spaniard  I  am  always  glad  to  see, 

There  is  some  bond  'tween  him  and  me; 

A  strain  of  nature  makes  us  deeply  one, 

Though  he  be  priest,  while  I  take  to  the  gun. 

A  common  craft  we  both  possess, 

And  vengeance  we  can  hide  in  a  caress ; 

Linked  too  we  are  in  common  hate 

Of  this  new  man  and  of  his  State. 

E'en  though  we  be  of  different  race 

We  look  alike,  methinks,  out  of  the  face ; 

Religion  too  is  not  the  same, 

At  least  each  has  its  separate  name ; 

And  both  of  us  have  one  great  joy: 

We  love  our  enemies — to  destroy. 

Although  our  worlds  be  far  apart, 

We  are  alike  deep  down  in  heart. 

And  I  do  dote  on  talking  Spanish 

E  'en  if  my  accent  be  outlandish, 

Its  words  run  round  and  rhyme  so  jinglish ; 

But  I  do  hate  the  very  sound  of  English, 

Its  speech  cuts  in  my  ear  a  slash, 

Long  afterwards  I  feel  the  gash, 

I  fain  would  fight  it  to  its  overthrow, 

And  take  its  scalp  just  like  a  foe. 


THE    DEPARTURE.  199 

That  language — when  I  try  to  talk  it, 

My  tongue  will  only  tomahawk  it. 

But  Spain  I  dream  the  happy  hunting  ground, 

Set  in  the  sun-up 's  golden  glow; 

Thither  I  too  beyond  shall  go, 

When  my  full  days  have  done  their  round ; 

There  all  our  greatest  Indians  will  be  found 

Still  with  their  tomahawk  and  bow, 

In  all  their  feathered  high  estate, 

Circling  forever  the  Spirit  Great — 

Our  Manito." 

So  Black  Hawk  spoke  his  compliment 

With  Indian  etiquette  well-meant, 

Though  sounding  somewhat  heathenish, 

To  that  sleek  Spaniard  Molinar, 

Who  seemed  to  smile  his  heart's  assent 

Though  inwardly  he  was  at  war 

And  relished  not  the  godless  dish, 

For  e'en  his  wish  he  must  at  times  unwish. 

To  everything  the  savage  said 

He  never  failed  to  nod  his  head, 

But  would  not  back  it  with  his  word, 

Not  let  a  single  smile  be  heard. 

Whereat  the  Eedskin  higher  raises 

His  voice,  with  a  wild  whoop  of  praises : 

*  *  I  love  the  Spaniard  and  his  rule, 
And  still  I  go  to  him  to  school. 
Some  things  of  his  I  do  not  take 


200         CANTO   VI— BLACK  HAWK'S  MARCH. 

But  him  I  never  shall  forsake. 

Down  to  St.  Louis  would  I  often  float 

In  my  canoe  to  see  the  lord  of  note, 

Whom  Governor  the  people  name, 

My  Spanish  father  I  called  the  same. 

A  number  of  them  I  knew  well 

And  every  year  would  visit  them  a  spell ; 

They  let  us  keep  our  law  and  land, 

They  traded  with  us  hand  to  hand, 

That  was  our  time  of  greatest  bliss, 

Which  now  in  sorrow  we  all  miss. 

There  came  another  sort  of  man, 

This  vile  land-thief  American, 

With  his  fire-water's  hell — 

I  know  that  yellow  devil  well, 

Though  it  I  never  drink, 

In  flames  it  makes  the  Indian  sink, 

Turning  him  sick  instead  of  well 

And  then  he  wallows  just  pell-mell; 

He  fights  his  friend  and  whips  his  wife, 

It  quills  him  over  like  a  porcupine, 

Which  jabs  each  kindly  hand,  or  mine  or 

thine ; 

It  is  the  White's  bad  medicine 
To  cure  the  red  man  of  his  life ; 
So  will  the  pale  face  solve  the  races'  strife. 
On  us  he  casts  his  greedy  frown, 
But  I  keep  out  of  that  vile  town, 
So  wicked  since  the  American 
Has  gotten  there  with  all  his  clan, 


THE    DEPARTURE.  201 

Different  now  from  good  St.  Louis 

Which  once  with  presents  did  bestrew  us, 

That  paradise  devoid  of  cares 

The  sinner  new  to  enter  dares; 

The  happy  Creole  he  is  not 

But  laden  with  a  toilsome  lot. 

Miserable  town !  I  hate  the  spot, 

For  there  was  signed  the  treaty,  wretched 

writ, 

Which  guiled  us  of  our  own  true  home 
Compelling  us  again  to  roam 
And  of  our  land  is  left  us  not  a  bit." 
Then  Black  Hawk  viewed  the  passing  crowd, 
And  cheered  them  on  with  accents  loud: 

'  *  Now  we  are  going  back  to  Saukenuk, 

Our  lovely  village  by  the  Bock, 

Despite  the  warning  of  old  Keokuk 

Who  would  our  noble  impulse  block; 

Let  him  enjoy  his  wives,  some  two  or  three — 

I  find  one  is  enough  for  me, 

Let  him  at  home  his  gilt  fire-water  guzzle, 

Bather  would  I  look  in  a  musket's  muzzle. 

So  march  ahead  in  haste,  my  braves, 

We  shall  re-take  our  father's  graves, 

Our  white-faced  foe  forever  foil 

And  own  again  our  former  soil." 

When  he  had  heartened  thus  his  train, 

To  Molinar  he  turns  again, 

And  whispers  into  priestly  ear 

Some  words  that  thrill  with  gleeful  fear : 


202         CANTO   VI— BLACK  HAWK'S  MARCH. 

"Now  to  Eock  Island  goes  our  way, 

The  Fort  to  seize  without  delay 

A  secret  plot  will  it  ensnare, 

In  which  I  am  to  do  my  share, 

Approaching  on  this  side  the  stream; 

From  the  other  side  will  spring  the  scheme 

Which  will  o  'erwhelm'the  garrison. 

Of  them  there  will  be  left  not  one, 

When  we  the  deed  have  done. 

Soon  will  be  seen  no  more  their  traces, 

Then  shall  we  have  our  union  of  the  races." 

So  Black  Hawk  spake  to  Molinar 

And  gave  a  foreglimpse  of  the  war 

Which  made  old  Sol's  big  downcast  eye 

Look  blood-shot  out  the  upper  sky. 

Meanwhile  before  them  rolled  along 

A  barbarous  upbubbling  throng 

Of  human  beings  in  a  stream, 

To  fire  the  world  was  their  wild  dream 

And  whelm  it  back  to  anarchy 

For  then  they  thought  they  would  be  free. 

The  warriors  ride  in  line  ahead — 

The  tribal  part  which  Black  Hawk  led— 

They  bore  the  name  of  British  band, 

'Gainst  all  Americans  was  raised  their  hand, 

In  contrast  with  sage  Keokuk's  folk 

Who  stayed  at  home  and  shunned  the  fatal 

stroke. 

Through  the  wood  and  down  the  vale, 
Those  Indians  trod  their  beaten  trail 


THE   DEPARTURE.  203 

Toward  the  Mississippi's  flow, 

Whither  each  runnel  tried  to  go. 

For  though  it  might  be  very  small, 

It  would  obey  the  Ocean's  call 

To  be  of  the  great  One-and-All. 

And  as  they  trod  they  hummed  a  song; 

Each  entire  household  bowled  along 

And  to  a  little  ball  seemed  rounding 

Which  with  the  footsteps  went  a-bounding. 

The  sturdy  squaw  upon  the  road 

In  moccasins  would  bear  her  load, 

From  blanket  on  her  swaying  back 

Slung  round  her  in  a  kind  of  noose, 

Two  little  eyes  would  peep  jet-black 

Of  her  pappoose. 

The  other  children  about  her  ran, 

The  coming  flock  barbarian. 

The  Indian  lassie  there  lacked  not, 
The  Indian  lad  was  also  on  the  spot ; 
Each  cast  at  the  other  stolen  glances — 
Would  meet  by  signs  well  understood 
Alone  would  wander  in  the  quiet  wood, 
Or  sit  beside  the  troubled  river's  flood, 
According  to  the  circumstances. 
And  so  sweet  love  is  doing  there 
What  it  does  everywhere; 
It  nooses  the  young  hearts  together 
And  sometimes  e'en  the  old, 
And  ties  them  tightly  to  its  tether, 


204         CANTO   VI— BLACK  HAWK'S  MARCH. 

Till  it  perchance  grows  cold. 

Alas!  that  it  should  not  forever  be, 

That  love  unlearns  its  glowing  smile ; 

But  then,  you  know,  eternity 

Is  a  good  while. 

And  yet  'tis  said  there  is  a  love 

Which  registers  itself  above, 

And  so  in  time  it  cannot  die 

Unless  with  its  own  tragedy. 

Such  love  by  poets  has  been  shown 

As  if  to  them  at  least  well  known, 

Perchance  to  them  alone. 

But  here  a  deeper  foreword  must  be  said 

There  may  be  born  a  Juliet  red, 

To  her  white  Borneo  so  true 

That  she  will  die  with  him  when  dead 

Feeling  she  has  nought  else  to  do ; 

And  so  the  difference  of  race  above 

May  rise  the  higher  unity  of  love. 

II. 

Reader,  now  turn  away  thy  look 
To  where  the  Mississippi  makes  a  crook, 
And  sweeps  around  an  island's  rock, 
A  gem  set  in  the  middle  of  the  stream, 
Which  to  the  current  gives  a  shock 
And  makes  it  whirl  in  double  gleam, 
As  if  the  married  waters  to  divide 
And  turn  a  river  to  each  side, 


THE    INDIAN    MAIDEN.  205 

Which  for  a  while  flows  separated 

Until  again  the  loving  twain  are  mated, 

And  happily  together  glide 

In  many  a  silvery  ripple's  slide. 

This  is  an  island  rock,  which  tells  its  name, 

And  as  Eock  Island  is  known  to  fame, 

WTiich   the   fond  Eiver   hugs   in   two   arms 

strong, 

Gives  it  a  kiss  quite  three  miles  long. 
Upon  this  isle  a  fort  uprises 
Built  by  the  United  States, 
To  guard  against  the  foe's  surprises: 
That  fort  is  what  the  Eedskin  hates 
As  one  of  his  forefrowning  fates. 

Behold  an  Indian  girl  slips  into  view 

Upon  the  silent  Eastern  shore, 

She  springs  alone  to  her  canoe 

And  takes  in  hand  her  oar ; 

She  dips  it  darkling  in  the  stream, 

'Tis  after  midnight  with  no  moon's  beam; 

The  tear  drops  down,  her  heart  is  sore; 

She  ne'er  had  done  the  like  before, 

And  yet  she  dared  the  more. 

The  daughter  of  the  chief  she  was 

Bred  to  the  Indian's  lore  and  laws; 

The  village  belle  and  favorite, 

Still  she  her  tribe's  own  youth  would  slight, 

Not  caring  for  their  tender  speeches, 

Her  little  world  that  maid  outreaches, 


206        CANTO  VI— BLACK  HAWK'S  MARCH. 

She  has  a  great  ambition  too, 

Will  weld  the  racial  chain  anew, 

Transcending  the  fixed  Indian  bound; 

The  wooing  chiefs  the  country  round 

In  every  Winnebago  town 

She  has  turned  down ; 

E  'en  "White  Cloud  once,  the  Prophet  great, 

Sued  humbly  for  her  plighted  troth, 

Although  he  had  another  mate, 

He  weened  he  wanted  both. 

But  when  he  barely  saw  that  maiden's  frown 

In  secret  slunk  he  off  to  Prophet's  town, 

He  well  foretold  the  right  reply, 

For  once  he  gave  true  prophecy. 

And  Swartf ace  too  had  felt  a  little  ruffle 

For  love  of  human  kind  again, 

Coming  from  a  girl's  least  look, 

Which  he  could  not  so  wholly  muffle 

From  tingling  him  with  heart-deep  pain, 

Beneath  his  misanthropic  strain. 

Such  was  the  love-born  winning  look 

Of  maiden  Winnemuk, 

For  she  had  given  her  heart  away — 

That  consecration  seemed  to  play 

In  every  little  glance  she  took, 

In  every  word  she  had  to  say. 

Her  aspiration  could  not  cool — 

Then  she  had  been  well  educated 

In  an  Indian  mission-school 

Not  far  off  from  her  home  located ; 


THE    INDIAN    MAIDEN.  207 

The  English  tongue  she  spoke  and  read, 

Many  a  printed  page  lay  in  her  head 

And  welled  up  oft  to  memory 

Telling  what  was  and  is  to  be. 

The  conflict  of  the  red  with  white 

She  knew  from  its  first  early  start, 

Upon  each  side  she  saw  a  right 

And  felt  them  both  within  her  heart, 

Where  they  kept  up  their  racial  fight, 

And  she  with  each  of  them  took  part, 

So  in  that  red-skinned  girl  the  time's  sore 

strife 

Kept  clashing  up  and  down  her  way  of  life. 
In  sympathy  she  pondered  long 
Of  Pocahontas  the  strange  tale — 
That  daughter  of  the  chieftain  strong, 
Who  knew  so  well  love's  weal  and  wail 
For  lover  of  a  different  race — 
And  what  beside  took  place. 
And  she  had  read  with  many  a  throe 
The  tale  of  Inkle  and  Yarico, 
The  faithless  English-speaking  man, 
And  the  devoted  maiden  Indian, 
Who  saved  his  life,  and  then  her  all  him  gave 
With  this  reward :  he  sold  her  as  a  slave 
Into  a  life  forlorn 

Regardless  of  his  child  and  hers  unborn. 
Down  deep  the  soul  of  Winnemuk 
That  tragic  story  strained  and  shook, 
As  its  keen  point  she  would  uncover 


208        CANTO   VI— BLACK  HAWK'S  MARCH. 

For  she  had  also  a  white  lover, 
Whom  she  would  dare  to  save 
Although  the  cost  might  be  her  grave. 

Now  in  her  cabin  she  had  overheard 

The  details  of  the  Indian  plan 

To  slay  the  Bluecoats  to  a  man 

Upon  Eock  Island  in  the  River; 

She  to  her  being 's  depths  was  stirred, 

And  every  muscle  felt  the  quiver ; 

One  of  the  plotters  was  her  sire, 

She  heard  him  speak  the  bloody  word 

Whose  hate  blazed  a  consuming  fire 

Against  the  whites  of  every  sort, 

But  now  against  the  holders  of  the  Fort 

Which  he  would  raze  at  once  outright, 

Since  it  was  built  just  opposite 

To  where  his  Indian  village  stood 

Across  a  narrow  intervening  flood, 

And  never  was  out  of  his  sight. 

A  tempest  raged  in  every  nook 

Within  the  heart  of  Winnemuk, 

For  at  Fort  Armstrong  was  the  chosen  one, 

A  soldier  of  the  garrison 

Wearing  the  hated  white-skinned  face, 

Belonging  to  a  different  race. 

That  night  upon  her  cot  she  tossed, 

And  for  a  while  she  held  herself  as  lost ; 

Though  not  a  syllable  she  tattled, 

Inwardly  she  sorely  battled : 


THE    INDIAN    MAIDEN.  209 

* l  From  my  dear  father  and  my  brother, 

From  sisters  loved  and  my  own  mother, 

Am  I  now  called  to  separate 

And  bring  on  them  perchance  their  fate? 

To  whom  is  my  allegiance  due  ? 

Can  I  be  to  my  love  untrue  I 

But  that  is  just  my  deepest  trouble : 

Ob  Love,  I  find  that  thou  art  double. 

I  feel  thee  in  my  bosom  stalk 

And  smite  it  with  thy  tomahawk, 

So  that  it  bleeding  lies  in  twain 

And  never  can  be  whole  again. — 

But  love  my  lover  I  shall  dare, 

To  that  one  Heaven  goes  up  each  prayer. 

My  kinship  then  I  must  defy, 

And  for  my  heart,  if  need  be,  die. ' ' 

So  spake  the  Indian  maid  alone, 

But  there  was  heard  from  her  no  moan, 

She  even  could  suppress  the  sigh, 

Although  a  tear  globed  round  her  eye. 

But  still  her  thought  within  would  roll 

Weighing  just  what  to  do  with  life, 

Which  heaped  her  up  with  strife  on  strife, 

Whereat  she  took  a  midnight  stroll 

Again  communing  with  her  soul : 

"And  now  there  comes  another  claim 
Which  rises  from  that  deepest  deep 
Where  races  have  their  primal  keep, 
Far  down  in  man's  first  living  frame; 

14 


210         CANTO  VI— BLACK  HAWK'S  MARCH. 

My  outer  tint  is  not  the  same — 

Must  I  yield  up  my  people 's  trace 

And  give  me  to  another  race  ? 

Ah,  in  the  bitter  jar  of  this  misgiving 

Fain  would  I  quit  this  strif ef ul  living ! 

All  must  I  sacrifice  to-day, 

Do  it  I  shall,  let  come  what  may — 

My  family,  my  tribe,  my  race, 

I  shall  give  up  and  take  disgrace ! 

Yea,  more !  there  looms  before  me  death, 

I  dare  it  take  my  final  breath, 

The  voice  now  bids  me  from  above : 

Surrender  thy  whole  world  to  love. ' ' 

Thus  by  herself  that  maiden  strove 

And  fought  inside  her  rifted  heart, 

Then  with  a  will  resigned  she  rose 

And  yet  resolved  to  dare  her  part 

Amid  the  deepest  human  throes. 

Still  now  and  then  a  hope  would  seem 

To  soothe  her  to  a  fleeting  dream 

That  she  might  be  an  instrument 

Perchance  through  suffering  from  Heaven 

sent 

To  obliterate  ensanguined  traces, 
And  join  in  love  two  hostile  races, 
So  that  the  future  time  might  be 
A  line  through  her  posterity. 

Silent  she  sped  her  swift  canoe, 
With  it  she  knew  just  what  to  do ; 


THE    INDIAN    MAIDEN.  £11 

She  shot  across  the  darkling  stream, 

On  which  the  fighting  fiends  did  seem 

To  rage  around  her  every  pull, 

While  her  own  struggles  had  no  lull ; 

But  all  her  ghosts  inside  and  out 

Were  foiled  in  turning  her  about. 

Soon  to  the  pacing  watch  she  came 

And  in  a  whisper  spoke  her  name, 

The  guardsman  chanced  to  be  her  lover, 

Who  knew  her  voice  beneath  night  Js  cover ; 

For  he  had  heard  it  thus  before, 

This  time  was  just  once  more. 

She  told  him  what  her  errand  was, 

And  of  her  journey  strange  the  cause, 

And  why  the  danger  was  so  pressing, 

Although  to  her  an  act  distressing, 

He  led  her  to  his  Captain  in  the  Fort 

She  told  in  tears  the  same  report, 

Exposed  the  plot  to  burst  to-morrow, 

With  many  a  sob  which  spoke  her  sorrow. 

The  Captain  heard  the  treacherous  scheme, 

He  thought  it  was  not  all  a  dream, 

And  called  at  once  the  commandant 

Whose  name  was  Taylor,  old  Zachary, 

Whom  a  presentiment  did  haunt 

Of  some  sore  trial  soon  to  be, 

Though  what  it  was  he  could  not  quite  foresee. 

A  doubt  still  lingered  in  his  breast, 

And  so  he  asked  Maid  Winnemuk, 

Eyeing  her  with  a  father's  look 


212    CANTO  VI— BLACK  HAWK'S  MARCH, 

While  giving  her  the  final  test : 

* '  Tell  me  the  motive  of  this  deed, 

Which  made  you  dare  alone  the  night  to  face. 

Defying  all  the  ties  of  kin  and  race, 

In  answer  to  some  deeper  need. 

That  power  would  I  like  to  know, 

Which  can  such  bravery  bestow 

Upon  a  simple  girlish  heart, 

Quite  equal  to  a  soldier's  part." 

The  maiden  modestly  replied, 

Shrinking  a  little  to  one  side : 

"Confess  the  power  which  me  drave — 

I  would  my  lover  save. ' ' 

Whereat  she  slipped  out  of  the  place 

And  ran  the  guard  at  swiftest  pace, 

But  on  the  way  she  never  stopped, 

Till  in  her  boat  she  lightly  dropped, 

Leaving  old  Zack  in  dreamy  mood 

Which  then  he  hardly  understood, 

But  later  he  will  get  a  chance 

To  test  the  meaning  of  this  circumstance. 

But  while  she  rowed  the  middle  of  the  River, 

She  prayed  to  it  as  the  All-Giver; 

Though  she  had  been  baptized  a  Christian 

She  dropped  back  to  the  Indian, 

And  in  her  Nature's  far-down  trance 

Upsprang  her  soul 's  inheritance, 

Descended  from  ancestral  faith ; 

In  quick  response  to  fervid  prayer 


THE    INDIAN    MAIDEN.  £13 

Lisped  to  the  guardian  Spirit  there, 

Out  of  the  water  rose  a  snow-winged  wraith, 

The  shape  of  the  great  Manito 

Who  makes  the  self  itself  to  know ; 

So  now  to  Winnemuk  he  saith : 

' '  I  come  to  help  thee  in  thy  love 

Although  it  goes  out  to  the  white ; 

The  message  hails  thee  from  above 

And  bids  thee  glimpse  the  future  right ; 

Love  lifts  thee  up  beyond  the  race, 

And  washes  out  the  tainted  trace 

Though  it  be  seen  in  every  face. 

'Tis  love  that  makes  thee  human, 

A  fragile  Indian  woman, 

Now  art  thou  more  than  red  or  white  or  black, 

Not  moving  on  one  race's  track, 

Hearing  the  universe 's  call 

Thou  art  the  semblance  of  the  All." 

The  boat  sheered  to  the  shelving  shore, 

The  Manito  was  seen  no  more 

But  dived  into  the  foaming  stream 

Yet  stayed  in  Winnemuk 's  high  dream, 

She  felt  her  love  far  greater  than  before, 

Ready  to  be  its  sacrifice 

Should  ever  that  stern  hap  arise ; 

Slyly  she  slipped  in  at  her  father's  door, 

Just  when  Aurora  had  begun 

To  shoot  some  blushes  at  the  seeking  Sun, 

Although  he  was  her  hot  pursuing  lover 


214         CANTO   VI— BLACK  HAWK' 8  MARCH. 

Whose  eye  conld  never  get  a  look  above  her. 
So  Winnemuk  her  cot  had  won, 
Much  had   she  done  that  night,  but  more 
undone. 

HI. 

Still  Black  Hawk's  troop  winds  serpentine 

Over  the  trail  in  drawn-out  line 

Of  women,  children,  and  the  old : 

Before  them  rode  the  horsemen  bold. 

They  cross  the  snaky  little  creeks 

Which  secretly  through  prairies  crawl, 

As  if  they  might  be  playing  tricks, 

Unseen  till  in  them  one  may  step  or  fall. 

Then  all  would  curve  through  woody  cove 

And  hear  the  leafy  organ  of  the  grove, 

Whose  pipes  were  lofty  tops  of  trees 

Which  chorused  to  the  pumping  of  the  breeze, 

With  up  and  down  of  soft  vibration, 

In  melancholy  susurration 

Which  rose  and  fell  in  heart-tuned  surges, 

Wreathing  the  way  with  Indian  dirges, 

Seeming  the  outcome  to  foresigh 

In  throbs  of  bodeful  prophecy. 

At  last  all  reached  a  thick  morass 
Where  they  couched  hid  in  the  long  grass, 
Beside  the  Mississippi's  flood; 
Not  far  away  Fort  Armstrong1  stood. 
Which  was  by  Indians  to  be  seized 


WHITE    CLOUD'S    MESSAGE.  £15 

And  razed  in  cunning  stratagem, 

Then  they  could  do  just  what  they  pleased, 

No  obstacle  would  stand  their  way  to  stem. 

The  island  fastness  upward  rose 

And  threw  a  scowl  back  at  its  foes, 

By  water  everywhere  begirt. 

The  river  would  not  let  its  child  be  hurt, 

Which  lay  upon  its  heaving  breast 

By  ripples  all  around  caressed 

And  kissing  it  to  rest. 

Scarce  had  they  found  their  hiding  spot, 

When  a  canoe  across  the  wavelets  shot, 

And  sped  to  shore  where  they  lay  hid 

To  sight  the  signal  which  would  bid 

Them  do  their  portion  of  the  plot. 

But  suddenly  ran  up  an  Indian  stranger, 

Who  came  to  warn  the  Hawk  of  danger, 

Which  had  just  dawned  instead  of  victory ; 

What  could  the  matter  be ! 

White  Cloud  was  called  the  man  who  came, 

With  character  told  in  his  name ; 

For  what  he  said  lay  in  a  cloud, 

Though  whited  was  the  wordy  shroud 

Made  of  politest  secrecy, 

E  'en  if  it  held  the  blackest  lie. 

Winnebago  was  his  nation, 

Prophet  was  his  high  vocation. 

But  now  he  has  to  tell  the  truth, 

And  even  trembles  in  his  ruth ; 

Unto  the  Hawk  aside  he  stepped, 

The  prophet  almost  wept : 


216         CANTO   VI— BLACK  HAWK'S  MARCH. 

"You  know  our  plan  well  laid — 

To  seize  the  Fort,  the  Bluecoats  slay 

Upon  this  very  day — 

That  plan  has  been  betrayed ! 

By  whom  I  cannot  say. 

A  little  village  near  the  shore, 

Just  opposite  the  hateful  Fort, 

Was  whence  we  would  pass  o'er, 

The  whiteface  likes  to  see  the  Indians  dance 

And  practice  antics  of  that  sort, 

While  over  us  his  banner  flaunts; 

Thus  oft  we  have  the  troops  amused, 

And  to  us  they  were  getting  used ; 

Unarmed  they  came  and  stood  around 

To  see  us  leap  and  beat  the  ground, 

To  hear  the  whoop  and  song  and  clatter, 

Wondering  what  was  the  matter. 

When  we  had  merrily  danced  awhile, 

Just  long  enough  their  senses  to  beguile, 

We  were  to  give  three  whoops  of  war, 

Then  rush  and  every  gate  unbar, 

While  all  the  guards  would  yield  their  lives 

To  the  quick  stab  of  our  hidden  knives ; 

And  at  our  common  shout 

The  rest  from  our  own  village  would  row  out, 

With  loaded  guns  to  meet  the  fight 

Which  would  begin  outright 

With  all  the  soldiers  of  that  garrison 

And  officers — without  excepting  one; 

But  when  the  battle  reached  its  height, 


WHITE    CLOUD'S    MESSAGE.  217 

Then  you  and  yours  from  the  other  side 

Would  cross  the  stream  not  there  so  wide, 

And  all  the  Bluecoats  with  one  whoop 

Into  the  stream  you  were  to  swoop, 

And  so  Fort  Armstrong  fell  would  fall — 

We  would  not  leave  one  stone  within  its  wall. 

But  when  we  went  to  give  the  dance, 

The  guardsmen  looked  askance ; 

The  gates  were  bolted  doubly  fast, 

The  time  to  act  was  past ; 

Then  we  were  warned  off  from  the  isle ; 

To  my  canoe  I  ran  meanwhile 

And  rowed  in  haste  across  the  River, 

That  I  this  message  might  deliver 

To  you  before  it  was  too  late : 

You  must  for  us  no  longer  wait, 

But  for  yourselves  at  once  look  out, 

Within  a  trice  you  ought  to  wheel  about, 

For  if  your  going  be  delayed, 

You  too  may  be  betrayed. ' ' 

The  prophet  thus  the  news  bespake 
While  through  his  body  thrilled  a  quake, 
At  that  most  sudden  startling  hap, 
Which  smote  him  like  a  ghostly  slap 
Out  of  his  future  dreamy  world, 
And  him  into  the  present  hurled ; 
When  he  had  sped  the  rapid  word 
He  left  his  hearers  all  unheard, 
He  would  not  wait  for  their  ado, 


CANTO   VI—  BLACK  HAWK'S  MARCH. 


But  ran  a  race  to  his  canoe, 

Began  to  row  with  his  full  might, 

And  soon  was  out  of  sight, 

Leaving  the  Hawk  in  sagging  plight. 

So  the  first  act  of  the  grand  scheme 

Turned  out  again  an  Indian  dream, 

Fort  Armstrong  on  its  bedded  water  lies 

And  all  its  red-skinned  foes  defies. 

The  well-gunned  Bluecoats  still  are  pacing 

With  keenest  eye-shot  round  the  walls, 

And  every  petty  noise  are  tracing, 

Though  but  the  bubbling  of  the  waterfalls 

Which  babble  at  the  shallow  shore, 

And  tumble  onward  in  a  little  roar  : 

Sometimes  'tis  less,  and  sometimes  more, 

So  that  it  throbs  a  tender  heart 

And  in  a  whisper  speaks  its  part, 

Or  to  a  music  gives  the  beat 

With  alternation  loud  and  low, 

Which  tunes  the  flight  of  river  fleet 

To  Time's  unresting  forward  flow; 

Or  maybe  it  is  telling  its  own  soul 

Of  longing  for  the  Oceanic  roll. 

IV. 

Five  minutes  were  not  gone  before 

The  Indian  mass  heaved  in  a  mad  uproar, 


Told  slyly  by  the  sudden  stranger, 


CROSSING   THE   RIVER.  219 

Whom  they  saw  glide  in  his  canoe, 

Mist- winged  slipping  out  of  view. 

The  warning  they  were  hot  to  heed 

And  rushed  away  without  a  lead, 

Men,  squaws,  pappooses  in  confusion, 

Even  the  horses  took  the  delusion, 

All  ran  together  in  a  panic 

And  roared  ahead  with  howl  Satanic, 

Never  letting  their  furious  pace 

Till  they  had  put  five  miles  of  space 

Behind  them  in  their  breathless  race ; 

Weening  old  Nick  upon  their  rear 

They  hardly  dared  look  round  for  fear 

Of  seeing  a  blue-coated  devil 

A  cocked-up  musket  at  them  level. 

At  last  the  rout  no  more  could  run 

But  fell  down  on  the  ground  undone, 

Awaiting  there  a  speedy  death, 

When  they  found  out  they  still  had  breath, 

And  had  not  yet  become  a  ghostly  wraith ; 

Soon  all  uprose  in  mutual  curse ; 

Each  blamed  the  rest  for  that  disgraceful 

flight, 

They  railed  at  Black  Hawk  for  their  plight, 
And  then  marched  off — but  none  the  worse. 
When  Black  Hawk  saw  he  had  been  thwarted, 
He  down  the  Mississippi  started, 
He  laid  his  failure  to  the  stream 
Whose  spirit  flashed  a  hostile  gleam, 
At  least  to  him  it  so  did  seem-, 


220    CANTO  VI— BLACK  HAWK'S  MARCH. 

Then  in  his  boat  upright  he  stood 

And  roared  in  wrath  his  vengeful  mood : 

"Father  of  Waters,  no  longer  friend, 

The  red  man  thou  wilt  not  defend, 

Protecting  him  in  his  old  land 

Which  kisses  lovingly  thy  strand; 

Towards  the  setting  sun  away 

Thou  scourgest  him  day  after  day 

So  that  he  can  no  longer  see  thee  roll 

And  join  his  own  to  thy  majestic  soul, 

Till  he  may  hear  thy  inner  call 

And  both  be  rapt  into  the  One-and-All. 

But  now  to  thee  I  shall  not  render  thanks ; 

To  our  white  foe  each  of  thy  banks 

Thou  hast  in  murmurous  joy  presented : 

That  act  is  what  I  have  in  thee  resented. 

Traitor  thou  art  to  thy  red  child 

On  whom  thou  hast  for  ages  smiled, 

Perfidious  has  been  thy  breast, 

While  we  have  toyed  with  it  for  rest ; 

Oft  has  thy  laughter  us  beguiled 

In  thy  disloyal  waves  caressed ; 

I  hate  thee  more  than  any  man, 

For  thou  art  no  good  Indian ; 

Upon  a  time  I  held  thee  wholly  red 

But  thou  the  nobler  skin,  methinks,  hast  shed, 

Hast  changed  thy  tint  just  in  my  sight, 

A  treacherous  turn-coat  over  night. 

No  wonder  thou  dost  creep  and  crook! 

Shame !  thou  art  worse  than  Keokuk ! ' ' 


CROSSING   THE   RIVER.  221 

Such  rage  poured  out  the  raving  Hawk, 
He  only  to  himself  could  talk, 
And  so  went  on  his  furious  musing 
The  River  as  his  fiend  abusing ; 
'  *  Cursed  be  the  day  when  once  I  floated  down 
Thy  villianous  waves  to  old  St.  Louis  town; 
More  than  three  hundred  moons  ago  it  was, 
Of  all  our  woes  the  hated  cause ; 
I  saw  him  come,  the  new  white  man, 
Out  of  the  East,  the  bad  American; 
Thou  didst  upbear  him,  0  false  Eiver, 
And  softly  set  him  on  thy  Western  shore, 
Which  he  will  stir  from  nevermore, 
I  felt  in  me  an  earthquake 's  shiver, 
And  all  this  world  rolled  in  a  quiver, 
Which  made  me  think  the  judgment  day 
Was  coming  down  this  way. 
But  I  intend  thy  stream  to  cross 
Backwards,  and  so  make  up  the  loss, 
Driving  to  death  these  rash  whitefaces 
Wreaking  on  them  the  rage  of  races. ' f 

He  scarce  had  winged  the  frantic  word 

When  under  him  a  grinding  sound  was  heard ; 

Black  Hawk's  canoe  ran  on  a  rock 

And  stopped  his  tongue  by  one  hard  knock 

Whereat  his  vessel  veered  about, 

And  circled  on  the  current  stout 

Until  the  prow  again  had  started 

Back  to  the  shore  from  which  it  parted ; 


222         CANTO   VI— BLACK  HAWK'S  MARCH. 

He  still  was  reeling  in  the  double  shock, 
When  rose  and  stood  upon  the  self-same  rock 
The  mighty  spirit  of  the  outraged  River, 
Flapping  his  two  outstretched  white  wings 
Whose  tips  together  he  in  tempo  flings, 
As  if  a  swan  might  turn  the  Giver, 
But  many  times  than  swan  more  large — 
The  pinions  brushed  the  distant  marge. 
And  now  from  beak  of  spirit  bird, 
In  godlike  tone  comes  forth  the  word : 

"  'Tis  I  who  halts  thee  on  this  rock, 
I  would  thy  further  passage  block 
To  save  thee  and  thy  blinded  folk 
From  the  impending  deadly  stroke ; 
Although  I  am  by  thee  most  hated, 
The  spirit  I  whom  thou  hast  rated. 
'Tis  true  I  am  no  longer  Indian, 
Still  I  would  save  thee  if  I  can; 
Thou  mayst  not  prosper  on  this  track, 
Therefore  I  bid  thee  now  go  back 
And  dwell  with  Keokuk  the  sage 
Tuning  to  peace  thy  present  rage ;  • 
I  have  become  the  white  man's  sprite 
Subjected  to  a  greater  might; 
Upon  this  very  stream  of  mine 
Another  guardian  takes  my  place, 
My  power  vanishes  with  thine, 
And  passes  to  a  different  race. — 
Hark !  it  is  coming !  that  new  ghost 


CROSSING    THE   RIVER.  223 

Which  rules  the  realm  which  I  have  lost !  ' 

This  Kiver  like  a  horse  it  backs 

And  whips  it  up  with  many  whacks, 

Curling  the  ripples  along  its  tracks ; 

The  domineering  overlord 

Unto  the  Mississippi's  flood, 

It  puffs  command  in  haughty  word 

Which  cannot  be  misunderstood. — 

I  spy  it  yonder — I  cannot  stay — 

I  see  it  swashing  down  this  way — 

Good  bye,  Black  Hawk,  'tis  my  last  day — 

Go  back,  go  back,  I  say. ' ' 

What  could  it  be,  that  monster  new, 

Which  drove  the  Spirit  old  from  view  ? 

Along  it  comes  and  gives  a  snort 

Which  cuts  that  ghostly  sentence  short, 

And  makes  the  specter  dive  headlong 

Into  the  current  where  most  strong, 

As  if  to  get  out  of  the  way 

Of  its  chief  foe  who  will  it  slay. 

And  Black  Hawk  too  at  once  down  ducked, 

In  his  canoe  his  head  he  tucked, 

Until  the  goblin  passed  upstream, 

Himself  alive  he  dared  not  dream ; 

It  was  a  mighty  apparition 

Which  at  a  single  breath  and  nod 

Dethroned  the  ancient  River-God, 

And  brought  about  a  new  condition 

In  all  of  that  adjacent  land 


224    CANTO  VI— BLACK  HAWK'S  MARCH. 

Which  stretches  down  the  fluvial  strand. 
The  steamboat  was  that  strange  phantasm 
Which  somehow  seemed  to  cross  the  chasm 
Out  of  the  old  into  the  new, 
Though  very  real  it  is  to  me  and  you. 
But  see  it  mount  the  stream  a-straddle, 
And  slap  the  wave  with  many  a  paddle, 
Whirling  tEe  wheel  with  its  long  cranks 
Which  like  two  mighty  arms  stretch  out 
And  whiz  their  knuckled  hands  about, 
Fetching  the  flood  their  heavy  spanks 
With  a  revolving  line  of  planks, 
And  pushing  thus  upstream  the  boat 
Which  else  would  down  the  current  float. 

But  now  the  miracle  of  transformation ! 

It  seemed  a  turn  of  fresh  creation, 

Black  Hawk  beheld  his  swan-god  rise  amain, 

And  flap  out  of  the  stream  again, 

Beheld  the  sky-wide  plumage  fly 

Up  to  that  monster  puffing  nigh, 

And  into  it  transmuted  be 

Before  his  Indian  imagination, 

So  that  he  sole  of  all  could  see 

The  two  becoming  one — 

By  some  exalted  alchemy 

The  miracle  was  done 

To  outer  and  to  inner  vision. 

Behold  between  the  twain  a  sudden  kiss ; 

Now  watch  the  metamorphosis 

jVIore  weird  than  ancient  poet  ever  fabled, 


CROSSING   THE   RIVER.  225 

Though  with  a  God  it  may  be  labeled ; 
High  Zeus  turned  to  a  swan  in  olden  story, 
To  meet  his  Leda  by  the  stream 
And  woo  her  with  his  brightest  gleam, 
Divine  the  escapade,  though  amatory ; 
But  now  the  swan-wings  fly  to  steam, 
Propelling  a  new  body  on  the  stream, 
That  body  plies  the  river  and  the  ocean 
Imparting  to  the  world  new  motion, 
Circling  around  the  total  earth 
Which  it  will  belt  with  a  new  girth, 
And  bind  afresh  its  folk  together 
With  a  universal  tether. 
But  that  new  River-God  at  last 
Beyond  the  sight  of  Black  Hawk  passed, 
And  was  no  longer  by  him  heard 
Flapping  enskyed  white  wings  agleam, 
Or  puffing  cloudward  breaths  of  steam, 
Which  to  him  voiced  a  winged  word, 
As  if  it  were  a  swan-like  bird 
Of  his  white-pinioned  dream. 

The  Indian  Chief  pulled  his  canoe 

Down  to  a  little  point's  projection, 

Behind  which  lay  his  people  hid  from  view 

To  escape  detection. 

Soon  all  were  rowing  on  the  flood, 

The  crossing  they  made  good, 

And  at  Rock  River's  mouth  they  landed, 

Just  as  Black  Hawk  commanded. 


15 


226         CAXTO   VI— BLACK  HAWK'S  MARCH. 

So  they  were  on  the  soil  of  Saukenuk, 
Which  all  the  settlers  soon  forsook. 
This  was  the  former  Indian  village 
Now  overgrown  with  white  man 's  tillage, 
The  houses  of  the  hardy  pioneer 
Soon  were  ablaze  both  far  and  near, 
The  mother  and  her  sucking  child 
Were  tomahawked  by  savage  wild, 
And  many  a  scalp  of  his  white  foe 
Was  dangling  from  his  belt  for  show. 
Yet  there  was  one  Caucasian  face 
Which  represented  too  a  race, 
It  was  Francesco  Molinar, 
Who  helped  the  Redskins  in  this  war ; 
But  with  himself  was  not  at  peace, 
Could  for  his  deed  find  no  release, 
With  his  fierce  comrades  had  to  stay, 
'Till  he  somehow  might  slip  away. 
Black  Hawk  had  come  unto  the  graves 
Of  his  forefathers  where  the  river  laves 
The  shelving  shore  in  ripples  loving, 
Which  never  stop  but  keep  on  roving, 
Till  in  the  Mississippi's  flow 
They  sink  away  with  ecstacy 
And  in  its  bosom  to  the  ocean  go, 
As  minded  on  eternity. 

And  now  starts  up  the  exultation 

In  dance  and  song  and  merriment, 

They  deem  themselves  once  more  a  nation — 

A  gift  from  their  Great  Spirit  sent 


CROSSING    THE   RIVER. 


227 


To  whom  they  rave  their  incantation, 

With  many  horrid  heathen  rites 

Dripping  with  blood  of  slaughtered  whites. 

And  Molinar  the  priest  was  there 

Scanning  the  sanguinary  scene, 

He  seemed  to  mutter  now  and  then  a  prayer 

As  if  he  far  away  had  been, 

For  absent-minded  was  his  air. 

But  see  the  Indians  turn  and  shiver ! 

The  new  Great  Spirit  of  the  River 

Is  panting  forth  its  whiffs  of  steam 

And  flies  in  haste  adown  the  stream. 

Behold !  it  faces  toward  the  mouth 

Through  which  the  river  Bock  runs  south, 

And  near  the  village  of  the  Sauk 

It  stops  as  if  to  give  a  talk ; 

When  it  has  anchored  on  the  shore, 

Bluecoats  are  springing  from  its  back — just 

four — 

And  at  their  head  an  officer 
Would  with  Black  Hawk  at  once  confer 
As  soon  as  he  had  found  the  chief ; 
Bravely  he  spake  a  sentence  brief : 

"You  must  this  very  day  turn  back, 
Else  you  will  have  our  army  on  your  track ; 
Yon  stream  you  must  recross 
Else  you  will  suffer  some  great  loss. 
What  you  intend  I  wish  to  know- 
Will  you  return  ?    At  once,  say  so ' ' — 
Black  Hawk  upreared  in  Indian  pride 


288        CANTO   VI— BLACK  HAWK'S  MARCH. 

And  with  a  hissing  scowl  replied : 

No,  NO. 

Whereat  the  soldiers  wheeled  about, 

Yet  rearward  kept  a  sharp  look-out 

With  bayonets  agleam, 

Until  they  reached  again  their  boat, 

Which  then  began  to  puff  and  float, 

Veering  around  in  haste  upstream ; 

But  soon  it  curved  a  foreland's  bight 

And  swiftly  shifted  out  of  sight, 

Still  could  be  heard  its  mighty  indignation 

Borne  on  the  breeze's  suspiration. 

Black  Hawk  himself  ran  up  his  tower, 

A  hill  which  stood  not  far  away 

And  over  all  the  land  did  lower 

Which  underneath  its  summit  lay ; 

High  on  its  tip  he  settled  there, 

To  the  old  Gods  would  say  a  prayer ; 

But  only  saw  he  everywhere 

The  white  man's  new-come  Manito 

Defying  Mississippi's  flow 

And  swimming  up  the  raging  flood : 

That  boded  to  his  world  no  good. 

Then  looks  he  forth  into  the  sky, 

The  God  there  seems  no  longer  nigh ; 

The  Sun  rolls  down  his  dome  into  the  West 

In  muffled  sheen  he  sinks  to  rest, 

As  if  a  tear  might  orb  his  big  round  eye 

In  solar  sympathy, 

Seeming  to  shed  a  fore-wept  sorrow 

For  what  might  rise  with  him  to-morrow. 


Canto  &efcentf). 


LINCOLN'S  DOUBLE  OATH. 
I. 

Behold  the  flowery  riot  of  the  plains 
Responsive  to  the  childing  April  rains 
Which  clasp  together  Heaven  and  Earth, 
Repeating  ever  Nature's  birth. 
Now  on  that  army's  path  of  toil 
Spring  everywhere  leaps  from  the  soil, 
Saluting  all  in  happy  smile, 
And  breathing  love  withouten  guile 
In  kisses  lasting  many  a  mile. 
The  prairie  e'en  showed  courtesy 
From  all  its  flat  democracy, 
And  readied  to  every  eye  along  the  way 
A  mighty  circumambient  bouquet 
Which  placed  each  man  just  at  its  heart 

(229) 


230      CAtfTO  VII— LINCOLN'S  DOUBLE  OATH. 

And  rayed  to  him  its  laugh  from  every  part 

Of  the  remote  periphery 

Encircling  that  wide  prairial  Sea, 

Which  waved  afar  enringed  wreathes 

As  when  the  wind  on  Ocean  breathes. 

Sometimes  a  single  sycamore 

Would  shoot  up  from  the  even  floor, 

And  reach  on  every  side  its  limbs, 

Starting  to  sing  its  little  hymns 

All  to  itself  out  of  its  own  tree  top 

With  many  a  varying  organ- stop, 

Lapping  its  thousand  leafy  tongues 

Which  answered  every  breezy  fluff 

And  piped  a  strain  according  to  the  puff 

Sent  through  its  big  arboreal  lungs. 

The  marching  line  of  men  did  seem  to  make 

Upon  the  surface  of  the  blooming  lake 

An  ever-widening  wake, 

Whose  ceaseless  waves  concentric  roll 

A  many-tinted  scroll. 

And  as  they  wound  their  way  around 

A  zigzag  path  along  the  ground, 

At  some  bend  often  they  could  see 

The  Mississippi  suddenly ; 

Whereat  their  eyes  would  brighter  gleam 

As  if  a  love  they  felt  for  that  one  stream ; 

Holy  perchance  they  would  not  deem 

Its  water  or  its  overflow; 

The  Hindoos  look  upon  the  Ganges  so, 


LINCOLN    AND    THE    MISSISSIPPI.  231 

And  Egypt  deified  old  Nilns  long  ago. 

But  still  the  man  of  every  station 

Felt  for  that  stream  a  strain  of  veneration, 

Which  made  him  look  at  it  in  awe 

Whenever  it  would  into  vision  draw, 

As  if  it  interlinked  with  his  salvation, 

And  bore  his  country's  destiny 

Into  the  future's  viewless  Sea, 

The  symbol  of  the  freeing  nation 

Hurrying  forward  into  History. 

One  drowsy  eve  the  marching  band 

Encamped  anear  the  river's  strand, 

And  with  their  slumbers  wove  the  rippling 

stream 

Transmitting  life  into  a  dream. 
For  all  that  weary  regiment 
The  daytime's  toil  was  with  a  music  blent, 
Which  tuned  anew  this  earthly  tenement. 
But  Lincoln  somehow  could  not  sleep, 
His  thoughts  made  him  their  vigil  keep, 
From  side  to  side  his  frame  would  roll, 
Yet  more  than  weary  was  his  soul, 
Until  he  sprang  up  from  his  bed, 
And  to  the  river  bank  he  sped, 
Reflecting  on  that  incident 
In  which  the  woman  slave  he  sent 
Away  from  her  old  servitude — 
That  stirred  in  him  his  deepest  mood, 
And  never  quit  his  inner  sight 
In  the  long  watches  of  the  night. 


232     CANTO  VII— LINCOLN'S  DOUBLE  OATH. 

Upon  the  shelving  banks  he  stalked, 

While  to  himself  he  seemed  a  ghost 

Who  with  him  as  another  talked 

And  in  a  common  footstep  walked — 

That  shadow  of  himself  was  uppermost. 

Over  the  ripples  played  the  moon  . 

And  set  both  mind  and  nature  to  one  tune ; 

Then  Lincoln  lordly  stopped  and  stood 

Addressing  Mississippi's  flood, 

Destined  to  flow  through  human  histories 

With  Tiber's  fame  and  Euphrates': 

"Thou  seemest  now,  0  Stream,  to  me 

The  very  roll  of  destiny, 

As  thou  dost  plunge  in  giant's  play 

Along  thy  channeled  way ; 

Into  the  future  sweeps  thy  line, 

And  so  does  mine. 

What  in  the  unborn  world  lies  hidden 

Comes  up  unbidden, 

As  I  behold  thy  ever-forward  gait ; 

Myself  in  thee  I  contemplate, 

At  what  I  am  to  be  I  wonder 

As  years  roll  on  above  and  under, 

Until  the  thread  of  life  is  clipped  asunder ; 

And  over  the  border  thou  lurest  me  to  spy, 

If  there  I  may  in  hope  descry 

Eternity." 

The  speaker  stayed  his  stirring  speech 
Which  had  attuned  its  last  outreach 


LINCOLN    AND    THE    MISSISSIPPI.  £33 

In  trying  the  Beyond  to  tell; 

Unbreathed  in  human  tone  it  fell, 

Yet  on  the  soul  it  left  its  silent  spell. 

But  soon  with  resolution's  tether 

He  pulled  himself  again  together, 

Out  of  his  spirit 's  boundless  overflow 

Came  back  to  something  he  could  know : 

"Return  I  must  from  the  unseen, 

To  ask  this  River — what  does  it  mean? 

The  ripples  leap  in  bubbling  dance, 

But  what  is  the  significance? 

For  Nature  is  no  petty  tinker, 

She  is  to  me  the  deepest  thinker, 

In  her  appearances  both  great  and  small 

She  gives  shy  glimpses  of  the  All, 

And  even  tells  her  elemental  thought, 

But  first  her  spirit  must  be  caught, 

And,  too,  her  language  taught. 

Oh,  mighty  Heaven-tapping  River, 

Thy  benison  comes  of  the  Giver — 

Into  thy  single  long-necked  funnel 

Thou  gatherest  in  hope  each  runnel, 

The  largest  streams  as  well  as  least 

Fetch  all  their  riches  to  thy  feast, 

Pouring  adown  the  double  mountain  crest, 

Our  boundary  of  East  and  West. 

Thy  deepest  word  is  unity 

Although  each  pottering  brook  be  free 

To  course  its  winding  way  to  thee ; 

Thy  stamp  is  set  upon  this  land,  0  River, 


234      CANTO  VII— LINCOLN'S  DOUBLE  OATH. 

To  make  it  one  forever, 

Each  little  affluent  of  thine 

Doth  lisp  the  same  deep  countersign : 

I  must  be  one  with  all  the  others 

Just  my  own  self  to  be; 

I  have  to  live  with  all  my  brothers 

In  one  great  family ; 

From  separation  springs  no  life, 

But  everlasting  strife." 

Thus  to  tense  Lincoln  seemed  to  speak 

Just  at  his  side  a  buoyant  creek 

Tumbling  around  its  bedded  stones 

In  endless  line  of  babbled  tones 

Quite  syllabled  with  parting  lips 

As  up  and  down  the  current  dips 

Until  it  mingles  with  the  louder  gush 

In  Mississippi's  foremost  rush. 

But  Lincoln  could  not  well  forget 
What  left  in  him  a  large  regret ; 
There  seemed  to  be  a  subtle  might 
To  put  upon  the  stream  a  blight 
As  it  ran  southward  out  of  sight. 
Again  arose  that  fleeing  slave 
Whom  he  in  camp  had  dared  to  save, 
Then  he  recalled  the  flat-boat  scenes 
When  once  he  floated  down  to  New  Orleans, 
He  saw  men  sold  to  servitude, 
On  which  he  never  failed  to  brood. 
There  heaved  up  high  within  his  soul 


LINCOLN    AND    THE    MISSISSIPPI.  235 

A  tossing  Oceanic  roll, 

He  turned  his  lit-up  face  down  stream 

And  pierced  the  dark  with  a  rapt  gleam, 

For  in  him  all  the  future  seemed  awake, 

And  through  his  voice  it  spake: 

'  *  I  cast  mine  eye  now  to  the  other  side 

And  watch  thy  wavelets  gaily  glide, 

On  yonder  bank  I  hear  no  chain, 

Whose  clanking  shrills  my  ear  with  pain ; 

But  when  I  look  adown  the  stream 

Divided  soon  its  waters  seem, 

On  the  other  half  a  darker  fringe 

Begirts  the  land  with  sombre  tinge, 

Which  overshadows  the  whole  State 

With  threatening  frown  of  Fate.     * 

But  look !  the  Heavens  light  with  joy 

This  side  where  lies  our  Illinois, 

And  here  the  stream  transparent  flows 

While  over  there  it  turbid  grows. 

0  sympathetic  Eiver  what  aileth  thee  ? 
Thy  spirit  voice  seems  crying  me: 

1  am  half  slave,  half  free, 
Thither  I  murmur  somehow  fettered, 
Hither  I  prattle  not  to  be  bettered; 
And  still  it  gives  me  my  great  trouble 
That  I  have  henceforth  to  run  double ; 
My  heart  I  feel  in  twain  is  cleft, 

Of  happiness  I  am  bereft; 
Halved  in  my  very  unity, 
I  am  become  the  foe  of  me, 


236     CANTO  VII— LINCOLN'S  DOUBLE  OATH. 

And  never  can  I  feel  myself  to  be 

Till  I  am  wholly  free. 

Unto  my  hope  I  was  more  true 

When  only  Beds  bathed  in  my  view, 

Or  rippled  me  with  their  canoe. 

But  now  arrives  another  race, 

And  mirrors  in  me  his  pallid  face, 

Me  rifting  with  his  own  affliction, 

I  too  become  the  white  man's  contradiction; 

Proclaiming  that  rent  liberty 

Of  man  enslaved  and  free — 

Such  split  has  gotten  into  me. 

I  pray  you,  take  it  out, 

And  give  me  peace,  0  Captain  stout ; 

You  seem  the  man  to  do  that  deed, 

So  let  the  Mississippi  too  be  freed. 

If  you  but  open  my  flood  gates, 

You  will  enfranchise  all  the  United  States." 

When  Lincoln  heard  that  ghostly  voice 

Foreboding  from  afar  his  call, 

He  knew  not  if  to  tremble  or  rejoice, 

And  still  he  heard  himself  in  all 

What  that  strange  phantom  did  unfold, 

Though  he  had  never  to  himself  it  told ; 

It  came  upon  him  like  a  revelation 

Of  life's  most  deeply  hid  vocation, 

Of  creeds  it  was  his  very  creed 

Which  must  in  time  be  answered  by  the  deed. 

So  Lincoln  viewed  his  destiny  aghast, 


LINCOLN    AND    THE    MISSISSIPPI.  £37 

That  trance  of  his  brought  also  back  the  past ; 

Along  the  Ohio 's  bed  he  boated, 

And  to  the  Mississippi  once  he  floated, 

Where  both  the  rivers  flow  as  one 

Down  to  the  hot  demesnes  of  sun — 

That  was  some  years  agone ; 

But  memory  starts  up  once  more, 

And  bids  him  speak  upon  that  shore : 

"Where  both   thy    struggling   sides  seemed 

gyved 

I  in  my  little  craft  arrived ; 
Each  of  the  shores  said  just  the  same, 
Not  half  and  half  was  then  their  name, 
That  was  of  this  just  opposite, 
If  here  the  day,  there  was  the  night ; 
If  here  unchained  the  river  laves, 
There  both  its  banks  are  slaves, 
Up  here  the  stream  begins  all  free 
Then  loses  half  of  liberty, 
Until  it  changes  wholly  to  its  other 
Binding  its  once  unfettered  brother. 
Ah  yes !  I  still  can  recollect 
In  the  Ohio's  flow  I  could  detect 
That  same  wee  murmur  forward  fleeing 
Of  a  divided  inner  being ; 
Kentucky  thralled  just  yonder  sighs, 
Free  Indiana  this  side  lies. 
Our  upper  stream  must  change  the  lower 
Into  itself,  or  be  no  more ; 
It  can  not  stay  half  liberated, 


238     CANTO  VII— LINCOLN'S  DOUBLE  OATH. 

The  bond  and  free  cannot  be  mated 
In  a  perpetual  unity, 
All  must  the  one  or  other  be — 
One  must,  I  say,  become  the  all, 
The  whole  a  freeman,  or  the  whole  a  thrall, 
Let  our  North- West  transform  the  Nation 
Along  with  this  great  Eiver's  transforma- 
tion!" 

So  Lincoln  winged  his  words  in  farthest  flight, 

He  seemed  to  look  ahead  with  second  sight, 

And  dream  himself  beyond  the  Now 

As  if  to  aught  unseen  he  took  a  vow ; 

Anon  uprose  the  river-ghost  again 

And  echoed  back  his  soul's  deep  strain: 

"0  Captain,  Captain,  well  I  see 

Thine  is  the  far  futurity; 

And  so  to  thee  my  aspiration 

I  speak  concerning  all  the  Nation, 

Hear,  then,  prophetic  Time 's  decree : 

This  upper  part  of  me 

Must  move  down  stream  till  all  alike  I  be ; 

My  Eiver,  too,  in  its  whole  length 

Is  to  be  liberated  by  thy  strength, 

From  its  headwaters  till  the  mouth, 

From  icy  North  to  balmy  South ; 

This  upper  part  that  lower  must  transform 

E  'en  though  it  cost  a  mighty  storm ; 

Unless  this   hap,  that  lower  part 

The  upper  here  will  also  take 


LINCOLN   AND    THE   MISSISSIPPI.          £39 

And  these  free  shores  unfree  will  make 

Stabbing  our  world  unto  the  heart. 

Oh  Lincoln,  I  am  the  spirit  of  the  Kiver, 

I  come  to  pray  thee  to  deliver 

Me  from  my  present  pains 

Which  leave  me  half  in  chains 

But  also  from  that  deadly  spot 

Which  would  my  stream-bed  wholly  blot. 

I  feel  thou  art  the  man  to  save 

Me  from  becoming  altogether  slave ; 

Yea  me  to  liberate  now  half  enthralled, 

To  such  a  task  I  hear  thee  called. 

But  listen  to  the  word  I  say : 

'Tis  written  in  the  book  of  destiny 

As  I  am  now,  I  cannot  stay ; 

All  slave  I  turn  or  else  all  free, 

One  or  the  other,  it  must  be  all — 

'Tween  half  and  half  can  last  no  wall, 

Though  with  much  cunning  it  be  built 

Such  halfness  is  but  labor  spilt, 

A  bloom  of  compromise  which  soon  must  wilt. 

Of  every  little  thing  such  is  the  soul : 

It  seeks  to  be  the  whole ; 

And  so  too  there  must  live  in  me 

The  whole  of  liberty. 

Down  through  my  entire  latitude 

Both  banks  are  to  be  freed, 

Or  be  engyved  in  servitude ; 

So  has  the  soul  of  History  decreed. 

Captain,  thy  deed  was  only  for  the  one, 


240      CANTO  VII— LINCOLN'S  DOUBLE  OATH. 

But  that  for  all  must  too  be  done ; 
Humanity  let  be  thy  creed, 
Now  universal  make  thy  deed. ' ' 

The  spirit  seemed  to  disappear, 

Its  voice  rang  long  in  Lincoln's  ear, 

He  felt  himself  in  view  new  born, 

Out  of  a  former  state  forlorn, 

And  with  an  ecstacy  unused 

Thus  to  himself  he  mused : 

' '  0  Stream,  fain  would  I  make  thee  whole, 

And  disenthrall  thy  river-soul, 

That  thou,  unshackled  as  thou  here  dost  roll, 

Course  all  thy  way  into  the  Sea, 

Thy  flowing  body's  sides  both  free. 

Then  one,  0  Eiver,  canst  thou  be, 

Not  halved  within  the  very  heart, 

But  unified  with  liberty 

In  every  throbbing  part. 

Would  that  I  might  sweep  down  just  now, 

And  thee  with  thy  whole  self  endow ; 

But  here  I  turn  the  other  way, 

Although  not  long  I  think  to  stay, 

A  little  task  I  have  to  do 

With  it  I  soon  shall  hurry  through. 

But  thou  hast  roused  a  deeper  dream, 

Which  I  must  tell  thee,  0  my  Stream 

Methinks  I  see  this  whole  North- West 

When  it  has  grown  to  manhood's  best, 

To  face  about  and  march  along  thy  banks 


LINCOLN    AND    THE    MISSISSIPPI.  241 

In  mighty  tramp  and  serried  ranks, 
Thy  chained  doubleness  to  break, 
Thee  one  and  free  to  make. 
So  will  be  changed  thy  entire  line 
Transfigured  to  our  new  design, 
Though  it  may  bring  a  great  earthquake 
Which  will  the  ancient  building  shake. ' ' 

Then  Lincoln  faced  himself  about 
And  Southward  trod  along  the  shore, 
Into  the  distance  peered  he  like  a  scout 
To  see  what  lay  before. 
When  he  had  finished  his  forelook 
Upstream  his  eye  a  new  direction  took, 
His  mind  too  ran  the  other  way 
In  deep  reflection  on  a  future  day, 
And  thus  he  to  himself  did  say: 
'  *  Our  States  alone  in  this  North- West 
Are  the  free-born  and  give  the  test 
In  all  our  Statehood  of  what  is  best — 
Born  of  the  Union  and  born  free 
Without  the  taint  of  slavery. 
That  Union  too,  which  gave  us  birth, 
We  shall  endow  with  a  new  worth, 
Tis  ours  to  save  and  to  set  free, 
Making  the  whole  quite  such  as  we, 
And  so  the  mother  shall  our  daughter  be. 
Thus  our  North- West  emancipates 
Not  merely  the  enthralled  South 
Down  to  the  Mississippi's  mouth, 

16 


242      CANTO  VII— LINCOLN'S  DOUBLE  OATH. 

But  the  entire  United  States ; 

The  old  as  well  as  new 

I  see  them  all  pass  through 

This  free  re-birth  of  the  whole  Nation. 

The  North  is  not  to  be  omitted, 

For  it  too  needs  a  liberation, 

By  our  North- West  must  be  new-fitted, 

And  Yankeeland  itself  be  manumitted." 

So  Lincoln  spoke  unto  his  heart 

And  told  the  Mississippi's  part; 

He  heard  in  it  the  time's  lament 

Over  the  ever-deepening  rent. 

So  strong  and  sudden  was  his  mood 

He  felt  as  if  just  there  he  could 

Wheel  round  and  march  the  other  way — 

But  that  task  is  to  come  another  day. 

He  has  to  wait  and  still  be  steady 

Until  the  age  has  gotten  ready, 

The  people  too  must  groan  in  discontent 

Until  they  start  the  march  for  betterment. 

That  spirit  of  the  Eiver  told, 

As  down  the  valley  broad  it  rolled, 

The  ailment  of  the  body  politic, 

Which  was  already  getting  sick 

Of  what  must  be  a  fatal  malady 

Unless  he  who  the  healer  is  to  be, 

Appear  with  the  right  remedy. 

The  sigh  of  the  great  stream  is  heard 

By  all  the  folk  in  its  wide  vale, 


LINCOLN    AND    THE    MISSISSIPPI.          £43 

For  in  their  hearts  is  whispered  that  same 

word 

And  spoken  too  the  self-same  tale. 
Their  own  they  feel  that  same  division, 
Their  own  it  is  to  heal  the  scission 
Warring  within  the  double  flood 
Which  shares  in  human  ill  or  good, 
As  if  great  Nature's  heart  knew  sympathy 
And  hearts  of  men  well  understood. 
The  river-soul  is  only  free 
When  too  the  folk-soul  has  won  liberty. 
Then  the  great  stream  will  hold  a  mirror  true 
To  millions  who  its  waters  view, 
And  who  may  thus  their  selfhood  see 
In  its  own  hell  or  harmony. 

Thus  Lincoln  paced  the  middle  of  night 
Until  the  East  shot  up  its  first  faint  light, 
He  listened  to  the  fluvial  sighs, 
Which  he  would  hear  out  of  the  ripples  rise. 
Although  his  heart  still  felt  the  rent 
As  he  turned  back  into  his  tent, 
He  fell  asleep  and  had  a  dream 
Which  echoed  still  the  voices  of  the  stream, 
But  soon  appeared  to  him  the  Union  mother 
And  brought  her  children — the  new  States- 
One  might  be  white  but  black  would  be  its 

brother ; 

And  still  they  had  to  live  as  mates, 
Born  in  a  line  each  after  the  other, 


244     CANTO  VII— LINCOLN'S  DOUBLE  OATH. 

Still  in  one  household  intermingled 

With  all  the  discords  jangle-jingled 

Of  the  collision  of  the  races 

Told  in  the  color  of  their  faces. 

For  if  one  child  were  born  a  new  free  State, 

The  next  must  be  a  slave  at  any  rate ; 

Deep-souled  was  the  maternal  pang 

Which  through  the  entire  country  rang, 

Upstarting  from  the  Capitol 

It  shrieked  in  pain  from  Congress  hall, 

And  racked  the  ears  of  all 

To  farthest  border  territorial. 

Repeatedly  had  Lincoln  heard 

During  his  youth  such  wretched  word 

See-sawing  the  whole  land  with  screams, 

And  now  he  has  to  hear  it  in  his  dreams, 

Concentered  to  a  long  dolorous  shout 

Which  gentle  sleep  could  not  put  out. 

So  up  full- willed  he  sprang  awake, 

His  fervid  sympathy  made  him  quake ; 

Godward  his  hands  upraised  he  both 

And  to  the  Future  took  an  oath : 

'  *  0  Union-Mother,  thou  too  must  be  sei  free 
Of  this  dire  birth  of  double  progeny — 
One  white  perchance  and  then  one  black — 
That  turns  to  bad  thy  noblest  good, 
Damning  thy  very  motherhood, 
To  throes  of  an  infernal  rack ; 
If  now  thou  bear  a  freeman  brave 


LINCOLN   AND    THE    MISSISSIPPI.          £45 

Thou  must  in  turn  bear  next  a  slave. 

I  swear  it,  if  Time  shall  lay  the  deed  on  me, 

I  shall  enfranchise  thy  maternity. 

This  is,  I  see,  the  highest  liberation, 

This  will  first  make  us  a  free  Nation." 

Such  was  the  oath  that  Lincoln  swore 

Along  the  Mississippi's  shore, 

Whereat  the  waters  roared  more  troubled, 

As  if  they  fought  themselves  redoubled 

On  each  side  of  the  warring  stream : 

At  least  so  ran  his  day-lit  dream. 

But  Lincoln  soon  himself  bethought : 

* '  Now  must  there  something  real  be  wrought : 

Another  oath  to-day  I  have  to  take, 

For  I  am  to  be  mustered  in, 

Which  strangely  seems  to  me  akin 

To  what  I  pledged  for  Mother  Union's  sake. 

So  outwardly  diverse  each  oath ! 

And  yet  one  sense  must  lurk  in  both. ' ' 

At  once  the  sun  burst  on  his  face 

As  he  stepped  forth  to  take  his  place 

In  front  of  his  ranked  company 

Who  greeted  him  now  merrily, 

But  for  them  he  could  not  dig  up  a  joke, 

Though  pleasantly  a  sober  word  he  spoke : 

1 i 1  have  to  leave  you  here  awhile, 

And  go  alone  a  little  mile, 

To  be  sworn  into  service  now — 

'Tis  to  my  country  my  first  vow, 


246     CANTO  VII— LINCOLN'S  DOUBLE  OATH. 

For  Uncle  Sam  and  I  must  be  united 
In  the  heart's  pledge  not  to  be  slighted, 
By  me  here  and  hereafter  too, 
Whatever  I  may  have  to  do, 
A  sacred  Yes  will  plight  my  troth 
When  I  to  him  have  ta'en  the  oath 
To  bond  us  aye  forever, 
But  violated — never. ' ' 

n. 

Contemplative  now  Lincoln  started, 

Inside  of  him  the  lightning  darted 

As  through  the  prairie  grass  he  strode ; 

He  cared  not  for  the  beaten  road, 

But  went  his  even  way  forthright. 

Still  everywhere  upon  his  path, 

In  a  dim  wispy  sort  of  light, 

Rose  up  that  bodeful  water-wraith 

With  its  foreshadow  fleetly  thrown 

And  on  his  future  overstrown. 

Beside  a  foreland  oft  he  stood 

And  watched  the  Mississippi's  flood, 

As  it  would  roll  out  of  his  view 

It  seemed  to  be  quite  cut  in  two, 

And  every  little  orbed  bubble 

Was  dancing  to  his  fancy  double, 

E  'en  though  all  sought  one  stream  to  be 

And  onward  rollick  to  the  Sea; 

But  still  another  shape  would  not  him  leave, 


LINCOLN   AND   JEFFERSON   DAVIS.          247 

Would  with  the  river  somehow  interweave ; 
It  was  that  fleeing  woman  slave — 
And  her  he  had  a  hundred  times  to  save 
Out  of  the  double  river 's  watery  grave, 
For  in  his  fancy's  whirring  strain 
She  would  come  up  again,  again, 
Repeating  him  that  self -same  prayer 
Voicing  the  future 's  voiceless  air. 

Headquarters  came  he  to  at  last 

When  he  the  river  Eock  had  passed, 

A  weather-boarded  house  he  stood  before 

And  heard  loud  words  come  out  the  door, 

In  hot  but  still  genteel  debate 

Between  some  officers  of  State, 

Who  showed  a  sign  of  coming  storm 

In  spite  of  their  tight-fitting  uniform 

Which  they  kept  buttoned  though  'twas  warm. 

The  stalwart  captain  of  the  West 

Felt  a  fresh  throbbing  in  his  breast 

From  just  a  word  or  two  thrown  out 

In  the  discussion  round  about; 

With  awkward  strut  he  gave  a  wrench 

As  he  was  beckoned  to  a  bench, 

His  long  legs  crooked  down  to  the  seat, 

And  he  drew  up  his  ample  feet. 

The  knobbed  knuckles  of  his  fisted  hand 

After  his  helved  maul  seemed  planned; 

Then  slowly  crossing  his  spare  shanks 

And  bending  down  his  meagre  flanks. 


248     CANTO  VII— LINCOLN'S  DOUBLE  OATH. 

Intently  there  he  oped  his  ear 

The  drift  of  that  debate  to  hear, 

Which  roused  the  more  his  interest 

As  it  kept  heightening  in  zest, 

And  that  same  knotty  point  involved 

Which  he  for  once  had  just  resolved. 

Again  turns  up  in  talk  two-sided 

Among  these  officers  that  inner  rent 

Which  had  his  camp  erstwhile  divided 

To  throes  of  civil  discontent. 

These  officers — who  were  they — who? 

Clad  in  their  coats  of  broadcloth  blue — 

Sent  far  away  from  home  out  here 

To  this  uncivilized  frontier? 

Each  was  a  Southern  cavalier 

Now  neighbored  with  the  volunteer — 

With  this  chaotic  Westerner 

Whose  etiquette  did  not  go  far, 

He  only  wished  to  win  the  war. 

But  still  the  Eutledge  sword  he  bore 

Whose  scabbard  scribbled  round  the  floor. 

Scarcely  had  Lincoln  touched  his  coonskin 

cap 

In  military  grand  salute 
Of  the  backwoods  recruit, 
When  a  Lieutenant  gave  a  slap 
Upon  the  table  board  before  him  there 
With  an  upstrung  bitter  air 
And  did  his  sentiments  declare : 
"Calhoun  I  love  for  his  defiance, 


LINCOLN   AND   JEFFERSON  DAVIS.         249 

I  put  in  Jackson  no  reliance, 

And  I  would  fight  the  President, 

If  ever  troops  were  by  him  sent 

Into  a  sovereign  State 

Unless  it  gave  its  own  consent : 

Such  act  will  have  my  lasting  hate." 

Lieutenant  Davis  was  that  speaking  one, 

Forefronted  with  the  name  of  Jefferson, 

Kentucky  gave  him  birth, 

But  that  fair  land  seemed  too  far  North, 

The  spirit  bade  his  father  emigrate 

Into  a  still  more  Southern  State, 

So  very  hot  the  clime  must  be, 

Too  cold  it  was  in  Tennessee, 

Through  which  the  household  onward  passed 

Until  it  reached  the  land  at  last 

Whose  border  kissed  the  warm  Gulf  Stream 

In  passionate  sunshiny  dream. 

When  Davis  had  flamed  out  the  burning  word, 

An  officer  at  once  demurred — 

Another  young  Lieutenant  there  upstood, 

Who  also  was  of  right  Kentucky  blood ; 

He  spake  with  resolution :  "  No ! 

That  were  our  country's  overthrow; 

I  shall  be  found  on  tTie  other  side, 

Such  is  my  oath,  such  too  my  pride, 

Obedience  to  the  Union  I  have  sworn, 

I  shall  obey,  as  a  true  Southron  born." 

The  knightly    youth,   blue-coated,   shoulder- 
strapped, 


250      CANTO  VII— LINCOLN'S  DOUBLE  OATH. 

For  emphasis  with  pencil  tapped 
Upon  a  book  of  Tactics  which  he  held 
While  from  his  heart  his  fervent  words  up- 
welled. 

Lieutenant  Robert  Anderson 
Gave  answer  thus  to  fiery  Jefferson 
With  flashing  eyes  that  meant  the  cannon's 

flame, 

If  ever  such  unhappy  crisis  came — 
No  braver  man  the  day  beshone, 
In  soldier's  worth  he  could  not  be  outdone, 
He  too  was  on  this  famed  frontier 
When  Lincoln  came  a  volunteer, 
Who  just  in  time  felt  all  the  heat, 
And  soon  upstraightened  in  his  seat, 
As  if  he  glimpsed  a  coming  fight, 
Which  rose  between  the  white  and  white. 
Some  Indians  too  were  present  there 
Squatting  in  corners  anywhere 
The  talk  they  could  not  understand, 
They  came  as  spies  against  their  band, 
In  them  was  seen  the  red  man 's  strife, 
The  Indian  took  the  Indian's  life. 
The  darkey  too  is  there  astir 
A  servant  has  each  Southern  officer, 
Allowed  him  by  the  Army  Eegulations 
And  counted  with  his  other  rations. 
Here  then,  we  find   again  a  many-tinted  set 
Away  from  which  we  cannot  somehow  get ; 
It  always  will  be  drawn  together 


LINCOLN  AND  JEFFERSON  DAVIS.         251 

By  some  unsighted  tether; 

And  here  is  marked  that  deep  division 

Which  underlies  the  racial  collision. 

But  now  another  question  rides  on  top 
And  will  not  let  thought's  seesaw  stop; 
Again  Young  Anderson,  Lieutenant  bold, 
His  will's  strong  utterance  could  not  with- 
hold: 

* '  Let  not  the  single  State  the  whole  deny 
Of  which  it  is  a  forming  piece, 
Let  Caroline  not  nullify : 
That  would  be  national  decease 
Our  Union's  chain,  so  we  must  think 
Is  just  as  strong  as  its  least  link. 
My  dear  Kentucky,  I  dare  say, 
Cannot  be  brought  to  go  that  way, 
Will  help  to  put  rebellion  under 
E  'en  to  the  tune  of  cannon 's  thunder : 
But  never  may  I  see  the  day ! ' ' 
Lincoln  again  could  not  sit  still 
At  that  brave  resonance  of  will, 
He  fumbles  at  his  sword-hilt  with  his  fingers, 
But  feeling  it  he  thoughtful  lingers ; 
He  too  was  a  Kentuckian, 
In  him  both  sides  to  strive  began ; 
That  State  pre-figured  the  deep  rent 
In  its  two  military  sons, 
Whose  call  is  war  to  represent 
Not  by  their  tongues  but  by  their  guns ; 


252     CANTO  VII— LINCOLN'S  DOUBLE  OATH. 

He  scarce  could  quench  his  agitation, 

For  in  the  State  he  felt  the  Nation. 

But  Davis  flashed  up  to  respond, 

Of  disputation  somewhat  fond: 

*  *  My  native  State  will  follow  me 

Whenever  strikes  the  hour  of  destiny." 

He  spake  it  out  in  haughty  air 

As  he  with  face  firm-knit  rose  from  his  chair, 

His  thin-lipped  mouth  in  lines  of  daring  cut, 

With  fierce  resolve  would  firmly  shut ; 

Aristocratic  his  disdain 

Eevealed  his  character 's  last  strain, 

But  Robert  Anderson  before  him  there 

Making  response,  quailed  not  a  hair, 

For  also  he  knew  how  to  dare. 

To  Davis  then  he  put  this  test, 

For  of  the  man  he  made  the  quest : 

' '  Tell  me,  would  you,  my  friend  and  mate, 

If  called  for  by  the  President 

To  go  in  arms  down  to  Palmetto  State, 

Obey  such  summons  duly  sent 

By  chief  commander  of  the  Nation — 

Or  would  you  give  up  your  vocation  I ' ' 

Lieutenant  Davis  thus  replied 

With  lofty  mien  and  doubly  dignified : 

1 '  I  have  already  writ  my  resignation, 

And  here  it  is,  you  may  it  read, 

I  bide  my  time  in  God's  own  speed." 

Whereat  out  of  a  pigeon  hole 

He  plucked  a  folded  paper  scroll, 


LINCOLN   AND   JEFFERSON   DAVIS.          £53 

Proceeded  then  it  to  unroll : 

* '  This  is  my  word,  next  comes  my  deed 

If  there  be  need. ' ' 

Brief  and  terse  shot  out  his  speech 

Which  like  a  bullet  just  the  mark  did  reach, 

Then  spake  forthright  young  Anderson: 

'  *  But  I  shall  stand  for  Union, 

And  keep  my  country's  flag  unfurled 

In  face  of  all  the  world; 

And  though  thou  be  my  very  brother, 

We  still  may  have  to  fight  each  other, 

Be  it  to  save  our  common  mother. ' ' 

But  see  uprise  the  Captain  tall 

From  sitting  on  his  little  stool, 

He  could  not  keep  himself  so  small, 

He  too  must  be  a  member  of  the  school 

Which  with  a  shot  had  opened  in  that  room, 

Forecasting  in  its  clash  a  day  of  doom; 

Though  he  possessed  no  rule, 

In  every  word  he  heard  a  distant  boom, 

And  that  last  phrase  of  Anderson 

Would  in  his  memory  jump  up  and  run, 

For  to  the  Union-Mother  it  spoke  troth 

To  whom  he  also  swore  an  oath, 

Which  had  him  now  with  Anderson  united, 

Both  in  a  common  pledge  to  Nation  plighted. 

And  there  besides  these  speaking  two 

Stood  other  gallant  men  in  view, 

High-buttoned  in  the  army's  broadcloth  blue : 


254     CANTO  VII— LINCOLN'S  DOUBLE  OATH. 

Captain  Harney  very  fine  to  see, 

Who  was  born  down  in  Tennessee 

Silent  he  sat  and  undecided, 

He  seemed  within  himself  divided 

By  these  disputing  officers, 

Who  were  like  him,  both  Southerners ; 

And  still  another's  scabbard  glistened 

Along  with  polished  tinsel  on  his  coat ; 

There  Albert  Sidney  Johnson  listened 

But  let  no  sound  escape  his  throat. 

They  all  on  Captain  Lincoln  gazed, 

And  at  his    shooting   eye-balls   were    a   bit 

amazed ; 

Unconsciously  a  center  he  had  made 
Out  of  himself  yet  not  a  word  had  said ; 
But  when  he  must  their  gathered  glances  meet 
He  seemed  to  drop  in  pieces  to  his  seat. 

And  still  the  embers  glowed  of  that  debate 
It  flared  again  as  if  blown  on  by  fate, 
The  battle  had  to  be  fought  out 
Between  the  two  contestants  stout; 
Lieutenant  Anderson  renewed  his  task : 
"I  have  another  question  still  to  ask — 
There  is  a  fort  in  Charleston  Bay 
Which  boldly  stands  athwart  the  way 
Of  those  who  would  the  Government  deny, 
And  its  supremacy  with  arms  defy — 
It  rides  the  waves  as  if  it  swam, 
And  guards  the  passage  in  and  out; 


LINCOLN   AND   JEFFERSON   DAVIS.          255 

That  fort  belongs  to  Uncle  Sam, 

His  loyal  ever-watchful  scout; 

Fort  Sumter  is  its  gracious  name, 

Methinks  'tis  destined  to  some  fame 

If  South  Carolina  plays  this  game ; 

Already  I  have  had  a  sort  of  dream 

That  to  this  fort  I  might  be  sent 

By  our  new  President ; 

'Tis  Andrew  Jackson  whom  I  mean 

Who  will  be  chosen  at  this  fall's  election, 

Since  from  his  ranks  there  seems  no  great 

defection. 

Now  tell  me,  Davis,  if  you  resign, 
Would  you  go  down  to  Caroline 
And  join  her  nullifying  band? 
Perchance    you  might    be    chosen    to  com- 
mand"— 

The  sitting  Captain  startled  at  the  word 
As  if  in  it  the  future's  voice  he  heard 
Kesounding  from  afar  in  dreadful  toll 
Which  echoed  to  the  bottom  of  his  soul, 
As  Davis  spoke  in  sudden  gush 
While  flamed  his  face  in  crimson  flush : 
"That  is  just  what  I  long  to  do; 
Let  come  what  may — I  shall  be  true." 
He  stepped  aback  as  to  prepare 
For  fighting  something  in  the  air 
And  slowly  emphasized  his  words  with  care: 
"Just  that  is  what — I  must  it  say — 
What  I  expect  to  do  and  b/>  some  day ; 


256     CANTO  VII— LINCOLN'S  DOUBLE  OATH. 

Events  are  marching  all  that  way 

I  tell  it  not  in  brag  or  fun, 

Lieutenant  Robert  Anderson, 

If  you  should  happen  to  be  there 

And  Sumter  should  resistance  dare, 

I  would  it  not  a  moment  spare, 

But  open  on  you  all  my  fire 

Till  you  surrender — or  expire." 

Advancing  boldly  to  the  attack, 

"And  I— I  would  fire  back." 

Said  Anderson  in  sentence  brief 

Which  seemed  to  burst  up  in  relief 

Of  his  loud  thumping  swollen  heart 

As  to  the  door  he  made  a  start, 

Leaving  to  time  the  dread  arbitrament 

For  now  there  could  be  no  true  settlement. 

Then  Captain  Harney  followed  him  away, 

Lieutenant  Johnston  though  would  stay, 

Whose  sympathy  to  Davis  leaned 

As  far  as  from  his  action  could  be  gleaned, 

Yet  not  a  word  he  had  to  say. 

The  years  will  never  fail  to  realize 
Of  this  debate  the  prophecies, 
The  speakers  twain  will  meet  again 
And  sing  the  same  old  warlike  strain 
Yet  not  in  words  will  it  roll  o  'er, 
But  voiced  in  battle 's  furious  roar. 
The  talk  revealed  anew  the  time  two-sided, 
A  people  growing  up  divided, 


LINCOLN   AND   JEFFERSON  DAVIS.          257 

Nor  should  we  fail  this  fact  to  face 

Which  turns  the  winning  of  the  race : 

The  Southerners  will  not  unite 

Though  they  must  take  part  in  the  fight ; 

They  cannot  get  to  be  as  one, 

But  stay  as  Davis  or  as  Anderson. 

To  that  debate  our  Captain  hearkened 

While  all  his  inner  being  darkened, 

As  if  he  heard  the  overture  of  fate 

Preluding  notes  of  love  and  hate 

In  strains  of  elemental  strife 

Which  intertwined  his  life. 

He  felt  he  saw  the  very  man 

Who  was  to  weave  with  him  the  deepest  plan 

Of  overseeing  Providence, 

To  whom  they  both  were  instruments. 

He  sensed  himself  with  Davis  bound 

In  some  fierce  wrestle   whirling   round  and 

round 

Which  sped  the  cycle  of  its  years 
Berained  with  all  the  people's  tears. 
So  Lincoln  here  with  Davis  was  first  mated 
As  antitype  to  be  associated 
With  him  adown  all  History : 
They  cannot  part  while  Time  may  be. 

Lincoln  had  lapsed  into  a  kind  of  swound 
So  that  he  scarcely  heard  the  sound 
Of  the  Lieutenant's  haughty  call : 
"What  can  I  do  for  you,  my  man?" 

17 


258     CANTO  VII— LINCOLN'S  DOUBLE  OATH. 

I 

It  was  the  voice  of  Davis  to  the  tall 

Lank  visitor  whom  he  began 

With  greater  interest  to  scan. 

The  dreamy  volunteer  was  far  away, 

Whither  his  soul  had  fled  he  could  not  say ; 

A  second  louder  question  then  upset 

His  free  fantastic  revery, 

Sternly  commanded  by  the  martinet 

He  swam  back  from  futurity ; 

Lincoln  awakened  by  the  din — 

' ' I  came, ' '  he  said,  "to  be  sworn  in 

As  Captain  of  my  Company" 

And  told  the  facts  as  they  might  be. 

"Eise  from  your  seat,"  was  the  command, 

And  then  the  words:  "Hold  up  your  hand" 

This  Lincoln  did  with  outreach  high 

As  if  that  clutch  hung  out  the  sky 

Over  the  spruce  Lieutenant's  head — 

That  awful  clutch  with  digits  spread 

Like  talons  of  the  American  eagle, 

Eeady  to  pounce  upon  his  foxy  foe, 

Who  cannot  always  him  inveigle 

To  fend  off  final  overthrow. 

It  was  indeed  a  giant  hand 

Which  chopped  down  trees  and  cleared  the 

land, 

Wielding  the  axe  with  keenest  edge, 
Whirling  the  maul  down  on  the  wedge, 
And  with  its  ponderous  master  stroke 
It  tore  the  rail  out  of  the  oak; 


LINCOLN   AND   JEFFERSON   DAVIS.          £59 

It  ditched  the  bog  and  cut  the  road, 
It  tamed  the  monster  earth  for  man's  abode. 
That  hand  rose  up  the  representative 
Of  what  the  West  would  do  or  give,      t 
Belaboring  the  soil  with  might 
Gigantic,  or,  if  need  be,  fight. 
But  Lincoln  had  another  hand,  the  left, 
With  which  he  could  of  deeds  be  deft, 
It  firmly  laid  itself  upon  the  hilt 
Which  haled  the  sword  of  Rutledges, 
As  if  it  might  in  sudden  stress 
Draw  for  the  instant  tilt. 
The  servant  black  of  Davis  stood 
Behind  his  master  not  far  away 
In  a  half-frightened  attitude, 
As  if  that  hand  might  drop  some  day 
And  something  break — just   what   he  could 
not  say. 

But  Lincoln  now  spoke  out  his  troth 
In  weighty  words  to  back  his  oath : 
' '  I  swear  the  Constitution  to  support 
And  to  obey  the  laws." 
Such  was  the  adjuration  short 
Which  never  was  to  make  a  pause 
In  maintenance  of  worthiest  cause. 
Whereat  he  clenched  his  high-held  hand, 
His  bony  fingers  no  more  outspanned, 
Knotted  his  knuckles  to  a  fist, 


260     CAKTO  VII— LINCOLN'S  DOUBLE  OATH. 

Which,  when    it    smote,   the    object    never 

missed; 

He  thwacked  it  down  upon  the  table, 
Which  was  not  made  so  very  stable, 
But  patched  together  of  board  and  buck 
On  which  lay  loose  official  truck. 
That  table  trembled  with  a  rattle 
The  inkstand  toppled  o'er, 
The  sand-box  spilled  upon  the  floor, 
The  darkey  sprang  out  of  the  door, 
As  if  already  had  begun  a  battle 
With  giant  hand  dropped  from  the  sky 
In  knuckled  panoply. 
Lieutenant  Davis,  brave  as  he  was, 
Leaped  back  amain  with  startled  look, 
Till  he  observed  the  sudden  cause 
Which  him  and  the  whole  cabin  shook. 
Might  he  have  had  some  dim  forefeeling 
Of  a  terrific  upheld  hand 
Which  would  come  down  upon  the  land, 
And  send  the  ages  forward  reeling 
Upon  another  course  new-planned  ? 
The  act  was  to  the  rules  contrary, 
It  was  indeed  unmilitary, 
So  a  rebuke  was  well  in  order 
To  train  this  wild  folk  of  the  border : 
'  *  Better  than  that  you  ought  to  know, ' ' 
The  wroth  Lieutenant  sternly  said  , 
But  soon  calmed  to  a  smiling  nod  of  head : 
''You  are  a  Captain,  so  now  go." 


LINCOLN   AND   JEFFERSON  DAVIS.          261 

Lincoln  again  uprighted  straight, 

But  with  a  louder-beating  heart, 

And  spoke  a  word  which  had  the  toll  of  fate 

To  him  who  seemed  his  counterpart : 

''Bethink,  that  was  my  first-born  oath 

Unto  my  country  sworn  forever ; 

I  meant  it  somehow  for  us  both, 

Never  to  be  foresworn  by  me  aye  never ! 

That  is  my  soul's  last  creed, 

To  be  made  ever  good  by  deed.*' 

At  that  bold-worded  stalwart  form 

Davis  looked  a  little  storm, 

But  still  he  held  from  speech  aloof, 

Although  the  edge  of  a  reproof 

He  must  have  felt  for  his  too-telling  mouth 

In  that  debate  presageful  of  the  South, 

Heard  by  this  Captain  of  the  mauling  fist : 

But  each  had  met  his  coming  man, 

With  whom  he  was  bound  up  in  God's  own 

plan, 

Each  now  first  measured  his  antagonist. 
And  so  they  stood  and  looked  apace, 
Wondering  at  each  other's  face, 
In  which  each  sought  the  lines  to  read 
Which  might  betoken  him  the  driving  deed. 

A  moment  each  the  other  eyed, 

When  both  began  to  spy  outside 

A  coming  shape  to  scrutinize, 

Which  brought  to  them  a  fresh  surprise. 


262     CANTO  VII— LINCOLN'S  DOUBLE  OATH. 

Lieutenant  Davis  quickly  bore 
His  lissom  form  out  of  the  hinder  door ; 
Old  Zack  he  sighted  riding  down  the  road, 
And  felt  within  himself  a  sudden  goad 
To  keep  his  person  out  of  view ; 
That  bared  to  light  another  node 
Jointed  of  circumstances  new : 
Why  should  brave  Davis  thus  backslide 
Just  after  all  his  words  so  haughty — . 
With  stealthy  footstep  rearward  glide 
As  if  he  had  done  something  naughty  ? 
But  Lincoln  moved  the  officer  to  meet, 
And  him  in  hearty  backwoods  style  to  greet, 
Perchance  to  speak  a  welcome  word ; 
The  huge  right  hand  struck  a  salute, 
Though  butternut  the  Captain's  suit, 
Then  did  he  what  was  dearest  and  adored : 
He  held  aloft  to  Zack  the  Butledge  sword. 


Canto 


THE  INDIAN  TRAGEDY. 
I. 

On  Saukenuk,  the  Indian  town, 

The  setting  moon's  sad  eye  looked  down; 

Paled  in  the  sun-up 's  waxing  glow, 

It  seemed  a  melting  ball  of  snow, 

Which  through  the  Western  sky  had  high  been 

hurled, 

But  now  it  sank  a  falling  world, 
And  soon  would  vanish  out  of  sight 
On  the  other  side  into  the  night, 
While  on  this  side  would  rise  the  greater  light. 
Between  the  downing  and  the  upping  sun 
The  thread  of  Fate  was  quickly  spun 
And  twirled  upon  Time's  rounding  reel, 
Which  is  indeed  a  fast-revolving  wheel. 
For  when  the  Hawk  threw  back  his  No, 

(263) 


264        CANTO  VIII— THE  INDIAN  TRAGEDY. 

And  dared  the  generalissimo 
To  halt  him  from  his  onward  way, 
He  deemed  it  wise  no  longer  there  to  stay. 
Fort  Armstrong  soon  would  bring  its  regi- 
ment 

Of  blue  coats  on  a  battle  bent, 
With  musket,  sabre,  cannon  too, 
War's  terror-roaring  hullabaloo, 
Enough  the  savage  tongue  to  numb, 
By  Indian  yell  not  to  be  overcome. 

So  Black  Hawk  quit  fair  Saukenuk, 

The  village  which  his  tribe  forsook, 

Already  years  that  was  agone, 

White  faces  now  have  tilled  it  as  their  own. 

Thence  up  the  river  Eock  he  moved 

Following  the  channel  as  if  grooved, 

Through  a  pleasant  blooming  dale 

Like  Paradise  in  fairy  tale. 

While  riding  on  beside  the  Hawk, 

Francesco  Molinar  began  to  talk, 

Loyola's  loyalest  he  was, 

Devoted  to  his  master's  cause. 

He  hoped  to  stay  the  swarming  multitude— 

The  Anglo-Saxon  hateful  brood — 

At  cost  of  Indian  blood : 

"Where  are  the  many  tribes,"  he  cries, 

Which  were  upon  our  path  to  rise 

And  fill  with  warlike  shouts  the  skies'? 

Scarcely  a  dozen,  one  by  one, 


SECOND  GATHERING  OF  RACES.  265 

Sneaking  in  secret  quite  alone 

Have  joined  us  as  we  marched  along, 

Instead  of  that  vast  promised  throng 

Extending  from  far  North  to  South, 

From  the  Great  Lakes  to  the  Ohio 's  mouth. 

The  Winnebagoes  are  not  here 

Except  the  Prophet  and  some  to  him  near ; 

And  if  I  look  around,  I  cannot  see 

A  single  Potawatomie. ' ' 

Then  Black  Hawk  boldly  to  him  said : 

1 '  No  skulking  now — I  shall  go  on  ahead — 

Before  I  die,  I  fain  would  sate 

In  white  man's  gore  the  Indian's  hate: 

That  is  the  pith  of  this  whole  war, 

I  say  it  thee,  0  Molinar, 

Though  thine  be  a  Caucasian  skin; 

It  is  the  race  which  stirs  both  sides  within, 

As  ye  are  fair  and  we  are  red, 

The  souls  are  wholly  opposite, 

And  men  will  never  stop  this  fight 

Till  one  or  the  other  fall  down  dead. ' ' 

Thus  Black  Hawk  spake  with  fierce  decision, 

And  showed  the  heart's  own  deepest  scission 

Involving  Molinar  with  his  blood  kin, 

Who  felt  the  grind  of  original  sin, 

And  would  be  out  of  what  he  there  was  in. 

And  now  they  reach  the  Prophet's  town, 
Where  huts  along  the  stream  were  strewn 
In  medley  mixed  of  man  and  mud, 


266        CANTO  VIII— THE  INDIAN  TRAGEDY. 

But  everywhere  the  April  bud 

Was  lolling  out  its  double  tongue  of  green 

To  lap  the  rain  and  sunny  sheen, 

Too  timid  still  to  let  itself  be  wholly  seen 

Full-flounced  in  its  gay  dress  of  spring; 

The  frost  might  stab  it  with  a  sting, 

If  once  the  chill  North-west  should  blow 

His  icy  breath  from  peaks  of  snow. 

The  busy  squaw  her  patch  would  plant 

With  what  of  corn  and  pumpkins  she  might 

want, 

What  she  could  till  of  land  she  took 
Freely,  no  more,  no  less, 
Beyond  her  lot  she  gave  no  look, 
But  stayed  in  Indian  happiness. 
She  told  her  daily  tale  of  toil 
Without  the  hunger  for  the  soil 
Which  she  might  clear  and  cultivate : 
Wherein  lay  deep  the  Red  Man's  fate. 
He  knew  not  how  to  make  his  own 
The  very  land  on  which  was  grown 
The  bread  he  had  to  eat, 
And  all  his  forest's  living  meat, 
The  turkey,  squirrel  and  the  deer 
As  well  as  fowls  of  mead  and  mere. 
He  used  the  soil  as  air  or  water, 
So  never  rose  above  the  Squatter, 
Higher  he  never  could  associate — 
Could  form  the  Tribe  but  not  the  State. 
Such  was  his  race's  limitation 


SECOND  GATHERING  OF  RACES.  £67 

Which  meant  with  lapse  of  time  cessation. 

When  he  had  come  to  Prophet's  town 

From  his  high  horse  the  Hawk  sprang  down 

At  that  same  Indian  tenement 

Where  he  had  been  some  weeks  before; 

In  pompous  strut  he  passed  the  door, 

Yet  was  his  head  a  little  bent, 

His  hope  had  far  outrun  the  event 

Which  seemed  now  writing  him  a  zero 

Instead  of  crowning  him  his  race's  hero. 

And  so  had  come  again  Black  Hawk 

To  meet  the  council  for  a  talk. 

And  with  him  came  Francesco  Molinar 

Who  noted  well  the  setting  star, 

And  felt  more  keenly  now  the  sin  of  war. 

The  Prophet  sleek  had  too  come  back, 

Conceit  of  self  he  did  not  lack, 

Although  the  fort  he  failed  to  capture, 

He  still  could  rise  into  prophetic  rapture. 

Again  there  was  a  synod  of  the  races 
Composed  of  many-tinted  faces 
Within  that  little  savage  lair, 
Before  which  danced  Eock  River  fair. 
The  moody  hours  brought  blinding  night, 
Within  that  hut  there  was  no  light, 
Upon  the  mind  the  sun  seemed  set 
Spreading  the  world  with  melancholy's  net. 
How  different  that  former  meeting! 
How  ominous  the  present  greeting ! 


268        CANTO   Till— THE  INDIAN  TRAGEDY. 

Silence  now  ruled  the  little  crowd 

Which  had  before  been  very  loud; 

Each  tongue  had  all  at  once  become 

Quite  paralyzed  and  dumb. 

The  Hawk,  the  Cloud,  and  Molinar 

Had  naught  to  say  of  the  great  war 

Which  was  to  undo  the  Anglo-Saxon, 

And  e'en  reach  out  to  Andrew  Jackson 

At  Washington,  the  President: 

So  far  their  fiery  bluster  went. 

But  in  that  group  there  was  not  heard 

The  tongue  which  coined  the  strongest  word 

When  they  had  met  before, 

And  listened  to  each  other's  lore. 

Audacious  Swartface  was  the  man 

Whose  brain  had  hammered  out  the  plan 

Of  forming  red  and  black  into  one  State, 

Making  the  races  confederate. 

But  while  they  waited,  wondering  where  he 

was, 

And  whether  he  had  quit  the  cause, 
His  nimble  shape  slid  through  the  door 
And  noiseless  took  the  empty  place 
Where  he  had  sat  before 
And  represented  there  his  race — 
The  semi- African  Swartface. 
But  strangely  he  was  not  inclined  to  speak, 
Or  savage-worded  vengeance  wreak 
Upon  the  white  American, 
Nor  more  bespoke  he  that  great  plan 


SECOND  GATHERING  OF  RACES.  269 

Of  crossing  the  Ohio 's  waves 
And  starting  hence  to  free  the  slaves. 
But  soon  the  Cloud  urged  him  to  talk : 
* '  You  have  been  taking  a  long  walk ; 
Come  let  us  hear  your  story  spoken, 
And  be  this  dreadful  silence  broken 
Which  has  been  hitherto  distressing, 
A  mountain  nightmare  on  us  pressing. 
Come,  Swartface,  drive  away  this  spell — 
For  you  know  how  to  do  it  well. ' ' 
But  Swartface  hardly  bent  his  head — 
With  no  great  eagerness  he  said : 
"You  are  aware,  White  Cloud  my  seer, 
I  started  hence  on  devious  track 
Uncertain  if  I  would  come  back, 
To  find  out  what  the  volunteer 
Was  doing  on  this  war's  frontier. 
I  found  the  approaching  regiments 
And  lay  some  time  with  them  in  tents, 
And  heard  the  rumor  of  the  camp 
Which  often  bears  prophetic  stamp. 
I  was  disguised  in  sundry  ways ; 
The  woods  I  foraged  for  some  days, 
Bringing  the  turkey  and  the  deer 
The  quail  and  prairie  chanticleer. 
And  thus  I  furnished  the  fresh  meat 
Which  hungry  troops  were  glad  to  eat; 
But  while  I  served  their  daily  ration, 
I  learned  their  destination ; 
For  our  Eock  River  they  were  bound, 


270        CANTO  VIII— THE  INDIAN  TRAGEDY. 

Where  the  Sank  village  was  once  found. 
The  best  man  of  the  lot  was  named 
Lincoln — a  Captain  whom  some  blamed 
Because  his  tender  heart  would  save 
A  dark-skinned  runaway — a  woman  slave 
With  her  little  child." 

Here  Swartface  stopped,  his  voice  grew  mild 

And  if  it  had  not  been  for  night, 

A  tear  of  his  had  come  to  sight. 

He  stayed  a  little  his  discourse, 

His  feelings  stopped  his  voice  by  force 

The  others  there  kept  wondering 

Whether  might  hurt  him  anything: 

With  Swartface  what  can  be  the  matter? 

His  former  self  seems  not  this  latter. 

But  after-while  again  he  started, 

Another  curious  fact  imparted : 

"When  I  had  brought  my  game  one  day 

I  found  a  hubbub  under  way. 

The  camp  was  in  a  frenzy  boiling, 

I  saw  the  tawney  Captain  toiling 

With  the  uproarious  multitude, 

Against  them  all  he  sworded  stood 

Over  the  surges  he  lordly  towered, 

Behind  him  low  an  Indian  cowered 

Whom  he  would  save  from  violence 

Protecting  ever  innocence 

Though  in  a  savage  soul  it  shone, 

And  he  should  have  to  stand  alone ; 


TAYLOR  AND  WINNEMUK.  271 

To  rescue  from  a  murderous  strife 

A  guiltless  human  life 

That  man  would  dare  to  risk  his  own. 

He  would  not  look  into  the  tinted  face 

First  to  observe  what  was  its  race 

Before    he  might    protect    the     weak  from 

strong — 

The  man  he  is  to  right  the  wrong. ' ' 
Swartface  up  sprang,  there  clashed  within 
His  battling  soul  a  dual  din 
As  if  two  sides  of  him  had  gone  to  war, 
His  falling  fought  his  rising  star. 
But  hark,  Swartface !  thy  inner  roar 

Is  echoing  just  outside  the  door. 

. 

n. 

Scarce  had  been  uttered  that  last  word 
When  yells  of  war  around  were  heard ; 
All  Prophetstown  surged  in  a  scare, 
Rumor  rode  wildly  on  the  air, 
Bringing  confusion  everywhere. 
The  band  of  Black  Hawk  sprang  to  horse, 
And  made  the  helpless  tumult  worse 
Biding  and  whooping  through  the  crush 
Of  women  and  children  at  a  rush. 
But  when  from  council  came  the  chief, 
He  brought  along  a  mild  relief, 
Proclaiming  as  he  galloped  up  and  down: 
"We  must  at  once  quit  Prophetstown. 


272        CANTO  VIII— THE  INDIAN  TRAGEDY. 

Follow  along  Eock  River  forth, 

To  our  old  home  up  in  the  north 

Where  the  Great  Spirit  once  came  down  to 

tell 

We  shall  henceforth  forever  dwell." 
And  so  amid  the  furious  clatter 
The  council  could  do  naught  but  scatter, 
Each  darted  out  upon  his  way, 
For  there  they  could  no  longer  stay; 
But  what  might  be  the  matter! 
Some  days  already  on  his  way 
Taylor  had  started  for  the  fray, 
With  his  blue-coated  regiment, 
To  take  the  Hawk  was  his  intent 
When  he  had  heard  his  power  defied 
By  that  bold  Sachem's  Indian  pride, 
Whose  answer  to  Fort  Armstrong  brought 
Upon  the  soldiery  war's  fever  wrought. 
They  crossed  the  Mississippi's  stream 
Straddled  upon  a  horse  of  steam 
Which  danced  his  way  upon  the  waves 
Until  he  strode  up  to  the  shore, 
Whence  he  could  pass  no  more, 
And  tumbled  out  his  load  of  braves. 
At  once  they  quit  that  pleasant  strand, 
And  started  marching  through  the  land; 
They  passed  the  home  of  Winnemuk, 
Who  could  not  help,  though  hid,  but  look, 
Fiery  throbs  pulse  through  her  heart, 
Glimpsing  her  soldier-lover  thence  depart 


TAILOR  AND  WINNEMUK.  273 

With  knapsack,  cartridge-box,  and  gun — 

What  fatal  thread  in  her  was  spun ! 

Her  father  had  in  secret  sped 

To  join  the  Hawk  in  ravage  red, 

And  through  the  wood  the  way  he  took 

Hoping  to  find  the  band  at  Saukenuk. 

If  he  were  captured  on  the  way, 

Not  long  the  soldiers  would  delay 

Dispatching  him  at  any  nook; 

Deep  was  the  dole  of  Winnemuk. 

So  Taylor  pushed  upon  the  hostile  track, 

In  war  no  laggard  was  old  Zack ; 

Thus  all  the  soldiers  spelt  the  name 

Of  Zachary  Taylor,  destined  to  great  fame. 

A  man  of  action  with  eye-shot  steady, 

His    fighting    title    was,    "Old    Bough    and 

Ready." 

Above  all  else  he  loved  to  do, 
And  what  he  did  was  through  and  through, 
His  spirit  had  the  outward  bent, 
For  speculation  cared  he  not  a  cent. 
But  now  a  storm  has  stirred  his  inner  ocean, 
And  he  is  stressed  with  strong  emotion, 
Inward  his  very  soul  is  rent. 
Lieutenant  Davis  has  wooed  and  won 
His  daughter's  heart,  and  off  have  run 
To  honeymoon  the  happy  pair. 
To  Zack  it  was  a  sad  affair, 
It  seemed  to  slice  his  heart  in  twain, 


274        CANTO  VIII— THE  INDIAN  TRAGEDY. 

And  though  he  sought  to  hide  his  pain. 

His  struggle  was  in  vain, 

The  sigh  would  bubble  up  again. 

The  suit  he  stoutly  had  forbidden, 

But  his  command  both  had  o  'erridden, 

He  was  not  used  to  such  a  degradation 

The  father  and  the  soldier  knew  his  station, 

He  felt  his  word  and  worth  denied 

By  those  most  tenderly  allied. 

One  day  he  could  no  longer  hold  his  heart, 

Its  bursting  throbs  he  had  there  to  impart : 

"That  Davis  yet  will  make  a  muss, 

Go  where  he  may  there  is  a  fuss ; 

Among  my  kin  I  will  none  such, 

As  officer  he  talks  too  much; 

Fonder  he  seems  of  party  and  of  faction 

Than'  of  the  dutiful  soldier 's  action ; 

And  now  a  prophecy  I  am  going  to  say 

About  a  lowering  future  day, 

Come  true  I  hope  it  never  may : 

What  he  out  here  has  done  to  m«, 

He  yet  will  do  to  all  authority, 

Me  his  superior  first  he  has  defied 

His  last  superior  will  be  yet  denied, 

The  State  above  him,  come  time  and  tide. 

This  one  poor  parent — only  me — 

Let  him,  if  he  so  chooses,  disobey, 

With  arrogant  audacity 

The  universal  parent  too  he  will  waylay, 

Although  I  cannot  tell  the  day; 


TAYLOR  AND  WINNEMUK.  275 

The  starry  family  I  mean, 

Which  flaps  on  yonder  flag  in  sunny  sheen, 

He  will  dare  rend  if  it  stands  in  his  way. 

When  in  his  soul  has  riped  this  seed, 

By  him  it  will  be  planted  in  the  deed.'* 

Thus  in  his  way  bespoke  old  Zack 

Hot  on  the  Indian's  track, 

But  in  him  raged  another  war 

More  fiercely  fought  by  far 

Than  all  this  petty  savage  scare, 

Which  caused  him  no  great  care. 

Although  he  never  felt  a  fear, 

Iron  Mars  could  not  keep  back  a  tear, 

Which  welled  its  salted  scalding  water 

In  love  of  his  lost  daughter, 

For  lost  to  him  and  to  herself  he  thought  her. 

Just  while  he  sate  within  his  tent 
Dreamful  of  what  this  trial  meant, 
Behold  there  came  a  full  platoon 
Of  soldiers  in  the  uplit  moon; 
A  Kedskin  under  guard  they  brought 
Whom  skulking  in  the  woods  they  caught, 
And  with  him  came  an  Indian  maid, 
Who  took  her  place  and  by  him  stayed; 
Her  face  and  form  had  been  well-known 
To  all  Fort  Armstrong's  garrison; 
As  soon  as  he  a  glance  there  took, 
Old  Zack  himself  knew  Winnemuk, 
She  who  had  told  her  people 's  plan 


276        CANTO  VIII— THE  INDIAN  TRAGEDY. 

To  slay  the  Bluecoats  to  a  man ; 

She  dared  her  race's  secret  to  uncover, 

This  act  she  did  for  sake  of  her  white  lover. 

But  now  she  comes  her  father's  case  to  plead, 

For  he  is  doomed  to  die, 

Unless  she  can  divert  the  deed 

And  old  Zack  somehow  mollify, 

Who  sent  the  company  away, 

But  told  her  there  to  stay. 

Her  face  but  not  her  tongue  made  moan 

When  the  sad  twain  were  left  alone, 

Both  had  been  stricken  by  the  blow  of  fate 

By  sorrow  joined  in  common  human  trait. 

The  soldier-father's  sympathy 

Forefelt  the  turn  of  destiny 

In  his  own  sorrow-laden  heart, 

Within  himself  he  knew  the  maiden 's  part. 

She  had  in  woe  set  out  from  home, 

Solitary  through  wood  and  field  to  roam; 

She  ran  across  the  grassy  prairie, 

Her  flight  was  like  that  of  a  fairy, 

Unseen  she  thrid  the  frontier's  path 

Escaping  all  the  hostile  wrath. 

But  oh !  she  could  not  shun  the  inner  foe, 

Who  with  her  went  wherever  she  might  go, 

By  him  undone  whatever  she  might  do. 

Two  loves  were  raging  in  her  heart, 

And  gave  her  more  than  double  smart, 

To  father  red  she  was  in  feeling  bound 

With  lover  white  her  very  life  was  wound. 


TAYLOR  AND  WINNEMUK  277 

The  two  were  now  in  arms  arrayed 
Seeking  the  combat  with  each  other 
More  fell  than  brother  battling  brother; 
Against  the  other  each  might  lift  his  blade, 
And  each  the  other  slay 
Before  had  passed  the  day: 
So  saw  her  fantasy  the  fray. 
Her  bursting  heart  became  a  battle  ground 
On  which  her  father  and  her  lover  round  and 

round 

Were  wrestling  in  a  deadly  strife 
Whose  stake  was  life. 
The  love  of  parent  and  the  love  of  lover 
As  bitter  foes 

Were  fighting  all  along  her  path 
And  then  they  rose 

And  fought  upon  the  clouds  above  her 
In  furious  wrath; 
At  every  turn,  in  every  little  nook 
That  struggle  never  left  her  look. 

Just  when  the  parent  hu..  oeen  taken, 
And  seemed  by  all  the  world  forsaken, 
Up  to  his  side  the  daughter  strode 
Arriving  by  another  road, 
And  with  the  soldiers  to  old  Zack  she  went, 
Where  now  she  stands  inside  his  tent. 
A  daughter's  silent  pleading  eyes 
Caused  father's  heart  in  him  to  rise, 
And  so  he  spake  in  tones  full  mild : 


278        CANTO  VIII— THE  INDIAN  TRAGEDY. 

1 '  What  are  you  doing  here  my  child  ? ' ' 

''I  wish  to  take  my  parent  home 

Who  hitherwards  has  come, 

I  know  that  he  has  disobeyed, 

This  trouble  he  ought  not  to  have  made, 

In  his  own  house  he  should  have  stayed 

Until  this  fateful  war  be  past, 

For  many  days  it  cannot  last. 

Pity  a  daughter's  sorrow 

And  send  us  home  to-morrow. ' ' 

To  father's  heart  the  plea  came  nigh 

Even  a  tear  surprised  the  hero's  eye, 

And  yet  he  would  not  let  it  drop, 

The  soldier  must  the  parent  stop. 

But  to  her  spake  he  tenderly, 

He  could  not  quench  his  sympathy : 

* '  Though  I  his  guilty  act  forgive, 

And  let  him  go  with  you  and  live, 

He  promising  to  keep  the  peace, 

What  pledge  have  I  for  his  release? 

Will  he  his  former  ways  forsake  ? 

Or  will  he  not  his  promise  break!" 

Then  Winnemuk  rose  up  to  plead 

The  recompense  of  her  own  deed: 

"A  daughter's  pledge  is  all  that  I  can  give, 

Who  loves  her  father  and  would  have  him 

live; 

My  service  may  I  not  let  speak? 
My  race  on  yours  would  vengeance  wreak 
Aiid  plotted  just  these  soldiers  all  to  slay, 


TAYLOR  AND  WINNEMUK.  279 

And  raze  Fort  Armstrong  in  a  day. 

The  plan  was  well  concealed 

Until  by  me  it  was  revealed ; 

I  saved  you  from  a  bloody  death — 

Give  back  to  me  my  father 's  breath ; 

'Tis  all  I  ask  as  my  own  due, 

Remember  that  my  race  I  quit  for  you." 

The  soldier  felt  the  gratitude 

He  owed  to  her  who  did  such  good; 

The  parent  felt  more  deeply  still 

The  daughter  in  the  maid's  strong  will; 

He  saw  himself  in  the  Indian  chief 

And  to  himself  in  him  he  gave  relief ; 

He  saw  his  daughter  in  Winnemuk, 

And  in  her  love  for  parent  pleasure  took. 

The  Winnebago  father  then  he  called 

And  to  an  oath  the  Indian  thralled, 

And  sent  both  out  the  camp 

Upon  their  homeward  tramp. 

Off  with  a  joy  went  Winnemuk 
As  she  the  hand  of  parent  took, 
And  led  him  through  the  Bluecoats  there 
"Who  stood  around  them  everywhere. 
But  over  all  her  joy  a  shade 
Winds  in  the  feature  of  the  Indian  maid, 
For,  as  she  slowly  sauntered  out, 
Slyly  she  cast  a  glance  about 
To  glimpse  another's  longed-for  look- 
Torn  was  the  heart  of  Winnemuk. 


280        CANTO  VIII— THE  INDIAN  TRAGEDY. 

Although  she  now  possessed  her  father  dear, 
She  still  let  fall  the  tear; 
As  she  beheld  a  well-known  face, 
Delight  and  dolor  ran  a  race, 
Pursuing  one  the  other  like  the  clouds 
Which  belt  the  sky  in  sable  shrouds. 
Love's  hammer  pounded  in  her  heart 
For  him  from  whom  she  now  must  part, 
And  who  was  sworn  to  slay  her  kind : 
That  war  was  fiercely  raging  in  her  mind, 
Fate  bade  her  love  her  race's  foe — 
Whichever  won,  to  her  was  overthrow. 
Daughter  and  father  strode  toward  home, 
The  gleaming  sun  would  somehow  gloam, 
His  eye  looked  blood-shot  on  that  day, 
A  mist  cut  all  the  smile  out  of  his  ray 
While  trod  the  twain  their  way, 
Neither  had  much  to  say. 

in. 

And  now  beneath  that  sultried  sun 
The  onward  march  of  Taylor  is  begun, 
Not  far  from  when  old  Sol  sank  down 
The  Bluecoats  were  near  Prophetstown, 
Their  entrance  caused  that  sudden  wonder 
Which  drove  the  council  chiefs  asunder, 
Also  the  tumult  and  the  scare 
Confounding  all  the  redskins  there. 
Black  Hawk  commanded  a  retreat 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  RACES.  281 

Up  the  river  sped  the  moccasined  feet 

Of  squaws  with  young  and  aged  massed 

But  in  their  hurry  hardly  knowing 

Whither  their  front  was  going. 

Still  onward,  winding,  wavering  they  passed 

Now  through  the  stream-lined  wood, 

Now  through  the  creeks  and  swamps  aghast, 

Champing  meanwhile  a  little  food. 

But  how  turns  out  that  synod  of  the  races? 

Never  again  are  seen  their  faces 

United  in  their  lofty  scheme, 

Scattered  to  the  winds  they  seem 

A  dream  within  a  dream. 

Swartface,  White  Cloud  and  Molinar 

Have  dropped  the  talk  and  work  of  war 

And  fled  out  of  its  path  afar. 

So  Black  Hawk  is  now  left  alone 

To  reap  what  he  has  sown ; 

The  Indian  bold  will  never  rest — 

Dares  Death  to  do  its  best. 

One  of  the  roads  from  Prophetstown 
Swartface  now  by  himself  turned  down, 
Stepped  slowly  to  his  surging  thought 
Which   had  in  him  a  resolution  wrought : 
"That  man  I  cannot  fight- 
That  Captain  holds  my  soul,  my  sight, 
He  is  to  me  the  only  man 
Able  the  Race  to  overspan, 
The  red  and  black  he  dared  to  save 


282        CANTO  VIII— THE  INDIAN  TRAGEDY. 

Just  from  their  yawning  grave. 

In  my  rent  soul  the  black  and  white 

He  harmonized  for  the  first  time, 

Giving  to  one  its  God-born  right, 

Believing  the  other  of  its  crime. 

My  father  and  my  mother  born  in  me, 

But  ever  fighting  hitherto, 

Begin  through  him  now  to  agree, 

Yea  reconciled  they  rise  to  view. 

I  am  no  longer  what  I  was 

That  Captain  is  the  moving  cause. 

And  love  for  my  own  wife  and  child, 

Whom  once  I  quit  as  cursed, 

Is  coming  back  and  makes  me  mild; 

My  life  is  suddenly  reversed. 

As  negro-lover  he  was  defamed, 

But  that  for  me  he  was  well  named ; 

I  feel  me  soften  in  niy  hate, 

I  must  begin  my  new  estate 

Compelling  Fate, 

Under  that  Captain  I  would  soldier  be— 

Enlist  me  in  his  company 

If  ever  such  a  chance  should  come  to  me  ' ' 

So  Swartface  mused  along  the  way, 

Unstrung  he  seemed  for  any  fray ; 

No  hurry  showed  he  in  his  flight, 

He  hardly  marked  his  left  or  right, 

Self-occupied  with  inner  fight. 

For  as  he  quit  old  Prophetstown, 

He  felt  he  must  himself  put  down. 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  RACES.  283 

A  change  must  be  from  what  he  was  before, 

A  crisis  going  on  within  he  knew 

A  palingenesis  flashed  on  his  view. 

But  he  could  hardly  work  it  out  alone, 

So  all  his  thoughts  to  one  end  bore, 

To  find  the  man  who  first  the  seed  had  sown — 

That  Captain  he  must  see  once  more 

Who  seemed  the  time  to  rise  above 

And  gave  him  his  first  glimpse  of  love. 

Some  questions  too  he  fain  would  ask, 

For  on  him  had  arisen  a  new  task, 

Which  would  not  let  him  stay  in  peace 

Until  by  doing  it  he  found  release. 

But    see    White    Cloud    drop    his  prophetic 

goods, 

And  skip  with  haste  into  the  woods, 
Whose  secret  depths  full  well  he  knew, 
Oft  had  he  hid  in  them  from  view, 
When  he  might  have  his  prophet-spell, 
Some  future  action  to  foretell 
Which  the  Great  Spirit  him  dictated, 
Though  with  ambition  it  was  always  mated, 
Not  now  he  thinks  of  being  the  red  Pope, 
His  terror  speaks  another  scope ; 
Not  now  will  he  unite  the  races 
In  one  great  federation, 
And  be  high-priest  of  all  the  tinted  faces, 
His  mind  schemes  now  his  own  salvation; 
He  seeks  to  save  just  one  red  skin, 


284        CANTO  Till— THE  INDIAN  TRAGEDY. 

Glad  to  creep  out  where  he  crept  in ; 
He  cannot  think  of  any  other — 
Not  even  of  his  sacerdotal  brother. 

But  whither  shifts  Francesco  Molinar 

Who  had  so  often  blest  the  war? 

He  must  have  glimpsed  a  snatch  of  God, 

Wielding  above  him  a  good-sized  rod. 

When  he  beheld  the  synod  parting, 

He  was  himself  not  slow  in  starting, 

Henceforth  he  knew  the  red  men  fated, 

Their  life  could  not  be  renovated, 

At  least  not  in  his  pre-formed  way, 

So  he  would  there  no  longer  stay. 

He  wandered  down  the  Biver's  shore, 

St.  Louis  found  he,  but  no  more 

It  held  to  Spain  nor  yet  to  France ; 

The  mighty  scroll  of  turning  circumstance 

Unrolled  to  him  as  if  in  trance; 

The  rulers  spoke  the  Saxon  tongue, 

Whose  every  word  his  ear-drum  stung ; 

A  shade  of  the  Virginia  dialect 

The  Yankeelander  might  detect; 

But  Molinar  cared  naught  for  that, 

He  spiteful  on  this  new  world  spat : 

"Methinks  again  the  barbarous  North 

Has  poured  its  teeming  millions  forth, 

And  overwhelmed  all  civilization 

With  fresh  Teutonic  desolation, 

Worse  than  the  Goths  of  savage  Alaric, 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  RACES.  285 

Worse  than  the  Vandal  fiends  of  Genseric; — 

Just  here  takes  place  a  new  destruction 

Of  our  beloved  Borne, 

And  of  it  gleams  no  hope  of  reconstruction 

In  all  the  ages  still  to  come. 

Our  ethnic  struggle  here  is  lost 

Our  Church,  our  State,  our  Stock  must  pay 

the  cost. 

But  haste !    I  have  to  seek  another  home. ' ' 
So  Molinar  spoke  his  despair,  * 

Sigh-laden  round  him  waved  the  air ; 
Still  we  must  think  him  over-sad, 
The  Latin  case  is  not  so  bad; 
Its  culture  and  its  worship  will  long  live, 
For  they  to  man  have  much  to  give, 
Yea  even  to  Teutonic  foe, 
Who  through  them  must  in  spirit  go 
That  he  may  rise  himself  to  know. 
But  Molinar  let  run  his  Spanish  bent, 
Southward  to  Texas  soon  he  sped, 
In  which  a  granite-builded  settlement 
He  thought  to  make  his  lasting  bed. 
But  after  not  so  very  long  he  found 
Fighting  Sam  Houston  on  the  ground, 
At  San  Jacinto  Molinar 
Must  take  another  bitter  bit  of  war, 
He  hardly  dared  turn  round  his  head 
Until  across  the  Rio  Grande  he  fled, 
And  there  he  stayed  in  peace  some  years, 
But  Taylor  came  and  the  volunteers, 


286        CANTO  VIII— THE  INDIAN  TRAGEDY 

Behold,  it  is  the  same  old  Zack 

In  hot  pursuit  upon  his  track, 

Again  the  Saxon  drove  him  out 

At  Buena  Vista  putting  him  to  rout ; 

Thence  tripped  he  featly  to  the  Capital 

And  perched  himself  in  Montezuma's  hall, 

Till  Scott  took  it  and  him  and  all. 

Some  fifteen  years  have  seemed  to  be 

Fulfilling  Keokuk's  prophecy. 

But  now  the  other  conflict  whirls  apace, 

With  newest  shift  of  tragedy  of  race. 

IV. 

The  Bluecoats  found  a  voided  village 
With  all  its  greening  fields  of  tillage ; 
Much  truck  was  lying  round  in  waste, 
So  panicky  had  been  the  haste, 
Pipes,  blankets,  clothes,  and  moccasins- 
Still  full  of  corn  were  many  bins. 
But  up  and  on  the  soldiers  pressed, 
To  Black  Hawk's  band  they  gave  no  rest, 
With  it  there  could  not  be  a  truce, 
They  let  escape  squaw  and  pappoose. 
Some  days  had  passed  in  this  pursuit, 
When  suddenly  the  Indians  shoot 
Upon  a  foraging  detail 
Who  will  at  once  the  foe  assail ; 
They  gather  up  their  little  troop 
In  answer  to  the  savage  whoop ; 


THE  TRAGEDY  OF  WINNEMUK.  £87 

Of  them  a  sergeant  had  command, 

Bravely  they  took  their  final  stand 

Before  the  larger  Indian  band 

With  cartridge  ball  to  greet  it, 

And  then  with  bayonet  or  knife  to  meet  it 

If  once  the  struggle  started  hand  to  hand. 

But  who  is  this — an  Indian  chief — 

With  vengeance  in  his  vicious  look? 

He  will  destroy  these  men  in  blue 

And  scalp  them  too, 

Before  may  come  relief. 

The  father  'tis  of  Winnemuk, 

The  daughter  he  again  forsook 

He  has  become  forsworn,  untrue, 

Slyly  he  slipped  out  of  her  view, 

He  watched  the  moments  while  she  slept 

Out-worn  with  her  fatigue  and  care, 

Then  through  the  prairie  grass  he  crept, 

Soon  sped  he  far  from  there. 

When  she  awoke  she  was  alone, 

The  way  she  knew  not  he  had  gone ; 

It  was  another  stroke  of  fate 

Which  made  her  for  a  moment  hesitate 

And  her  new  lot  debate : 

* '  Shall  it  then  be  that  they  must  fight — 

The  very  two  whom  I  love  most  ? 

If  that  be  God's  decree  of  right, 

Then  I  am  lost. 

My  heart  is  torn  in  twain 

And  bleeds  with  its  own  wound  again ; 


2gg        CANTO  VIII— THE  INDIAN  TRAGEDY. 

In  me  I  hear  the  fire-arms  rattle, 
Methinks  I  see  the  bloody  battle 
Between  two  loves  in  deadly  feud ; 
I  am  both  sides  and  I  am  each, 
Their  fury  cannot  be  withstood, 
I  cannot  them  compassion  teach, 
So  peace  has  fled  beyond  my  reach. 
I  am  myself  both  fires, 
How  can  I  quench  their  burning  ires  ? 
I  know  my  father  has  gone  back, 
But  I  can't  tell  where  is  his  track; 
I  breathe  but  know  not  why, 
I  wonder  that  I  do  not  die. 
Then  it  must  be  I  have  some  task- 
Further  I  shall  not  ask." 

So  Winnemuk  sets  out  belated 

To  save  her  father  from  what  seems  fated ; 

That  he  has  gone  the  Hawk  to  find 

Is  certain  in  her  mind. 

And  so  she  pushes  on  the  way, 

Resting  but  little  day  by  day, 

Wreathing  her  soul  in  hopes  and  fears, 

She  sees  the  sky  rain  down  its  tears, 

Giving  to  hers  a  soft  reply 

In  nature's  sympathy. 

But  suddenly  the  crack  of  guns  she  hears 

As  she  a  meadow  nears ; 

She  sees  two  groups  of  red  and  white 

In  maddest  sort  of  fight. 


THE  TRAGEDY  OF  WINNEMUK.      £89 

But  soon  the  Indians  take  to  flight 

Except  just  one — the  chieftain  he 

Is  wrestling  with  the  Sergeant,  each  for  life ; 

In  deadly  rivalry 

Each  has  unsheathed  his  knife, 

And  drives  the  blade  into  his  foe, 

Just  to  the  mark  the  weapons  go. 

Now  Winnemuk  has  come  that  way, 

Not  six  rods  distant  from  the  fray 

She  sees  her  loves  both  give  the  blow, 

And  then  drop  low ; 

She  now  beholds  the  outer  duel 

Which  she  within  had  seen,  a  vision  cruel ; 

The  lover  white  and  father  red 

Are  lying  on  a  common  gory  bed; 

The  blood  of  each  by  other  has  been  shed. 

Prophetic  her  presentiment 

Has  ever  pictured  such  event ; 

Up  to  this  day  her  march  of  life  has  led. 

Soon  by  the  side  of  each  she  stands, 

And  takes  both  daggers  from  their  hands, 

She  plunges  both  into  her  heart, 

Fulfilled  is  now  her  tragic  part. 

She  falls  with  only  Heaven  for  a  cover 

Between  her  father  and  her  lover. 

The  love  of  maiden  sought  to  mediate 

The  far-descended  racial  hate, 

But  ran  into  the  jaws  of  Fate ; 

She  dreamed  somehow  she  could  unite 

With  her  own  tinted  kin  the  white, 


»290        CANTO  Till— THE  INDIAN  TRAGEDY. 

But  found  that  they  would  only  fight. 

She  lays  on  both  her  gentle  finger  tips, 

Some  gasping  words  aloud  she  lips : 

"My  people  are  like  me — 

This  hour  my  last  I  see — 

Each  stab  would  take  my  life— 

The  dagger  white,  the  dagger  red, 

Each  of  them  cuts  me  dead 

In  their  own  mutual  strife. 

The  father  slays  his  daughter 

Just  in  the  lover's  slaughter, 

The  lover  slays  his  maiden  too 

In  slaying  parent  in  her  view." 

The  army  moves  upon  its  track, 

Soon  to  the  spot  has  come  old  Zack ; 

It  was  an  outpost  of  his  regiment, 

To  which  the  little  squad  was  sent, 

On  whom  the  Indians  undetected 

Had  sneaked  their  way  quite  unexpected. 

The  father  was  first  recognized 

By  Zack — aye  but  he  was  surprised — 

He  dimly  felt  himself  just  there 

Lying  in  place  of  that  stabbed  Indian, 

His  heart  throbbed  up  with  the  same  care 

And  life  seemed  separated  but  a  span 

Joining  the  father  living  and  the  dead ; 

An  iron  tear  old  Mars  then  shed. 

But  when  he  saw  between  them  lying 

The  lovely  Indian  maiden  dying, 


THE  TRAGEDY  OF  WINNEMUK,  291 

With  the  two  daggers  sticking  in  her  breast, 

The  thought  of  his  own  daughter  pierced  his 
rest 

And  drove  the  silent  man  to  speak 

The  doom  whereof  he  saw  the  wreak — 

Some  utterance  he  had  to  seek : 

"Can  this  be  she,  brave  Winnenmk? 

Still  in  her  face  there  gleams  a  loving  look ; 

She  bids  me  thin£  of  my  own  child 

Of  whom  I  too  have  been  beguiled 

Torn  from  me  by  another's  love  malign, 

Though  still  she  clings,  I  know,  to  mine. 

Ah,  Winnemuk,  I  seem  to  see 

In  you  what  now  belongs  to  me ; 

That  double  wound — it  is  in  you — 

But  it  is  in  my  bosom  too ; 

And  then  I  see  it  rend  my  daughter's  heart, 

That  rouses  in  me  a  still  deeper  smart ; 

Thy  daggers  twain  point  me  the  same  direc- 
tion, 

I  see  her  bleed  in  thy  reflection, 

Rent  by  the  same  twofold  aff ection. 

And  though  she  still  has  life, 

She  soon,  I  fear  may  die 

Of  this  same  double  strife 

Which  seems  the  doom  of  destiny, 

0  Winnamuk,  to  thee, 

And  aye  to  me." 

So  spake  strong  Zachary  the  bluff, 


292        CANTO  VIII— THE  INDIAN  TRAGEDY. 

Outside  he  could  be  somewhat  rough 
E  'en  when  he  was  most  sad, 
But  a  hot  heart  he  had. 
Just  here  before  his  men  assembled 
His  forceful  voice  to  silence  trembled, 
Worded  it  gave  not  forth  its  tone, 
But  ran  into  a  soughing  moan 
Which  the  strong  soldier  soon  suppressed, 
Downing  the  mutiny  in  his  own  breast ; 
To  what  he  next  had  planned 
Calmly  he  gave  command: 
*  *  These  three  here  bury  in  one  grave 
In  honor  of  the  brave. 
This  uniform  is  our  own  too, 
A  comrade  wore  it  tried  and  true. 
But  that  which  puts  him  up  above, 
He  won  this  loyal  maiden's  love. 
The  Indian  father  lying  here 
I  somehow  feel  with  to  a  tear, 
He  fell  in  fighting  for  his  race, 
As  parent  shows  he  a  yet  deeper  trace, 
I  have  to  think  me  in  his  place. 
But  this  brave  daughter  is  the  heroine, 
Of  human  tragedy  the  queen ; 
Leave  in  her  heart  the  twinned  daggers, 
My  soldier   soul   her  maiden    courage  stag- 
gers. " 

And  so  the  Bluecoat  buried  Winnemuk, 
Whose  grave  his  soul  with  sorrow  strook, 
It  was  her  fate  two  loves  to  cherish, 


THE  END   OF  BLACK  HAWK.  £93 

Their  warfare  'twas  which  made  her  perish, 
They  fought  outside  her  to  her  view, 
Before  her  eyes  each  other  slew; 
They  fought  within  her  many  a  day, 
And  could  their  struggle  not  allay 
Except  in  this  one  way — 
That  was  the  way  of  easeful  death 
Which  loosed  her  ever-battling  breath. 
But  in  her  end  there  seemed  to  lie 
More  than  her  own  fatality, 
Her  tomb  a  doomful  shadow  cast 
That  her  own  race  would  follow  fast. 

V. 

Some  slower  weeks  we  now  shall  skip ; 

Over  their  petty  turns  just  slip, 

Behold  the  Hawk  in  prison  caged, 

No  longer  with  his  war  engaged ; 

It  came  to  end  in  a  defeat 

Whereby  his  overthrow  was  made  complete, 

Almost  alone  he  took  his  flight 

When  he  had  lost  his  final  fight ; 

His  hiding-place  was  quickly  known 

Some  Redskins  soon  the  chieftain  caught, 

And  to  Fort  Armstrong  he  was  brought ; 

So  now  a  captive  he  must  groan 

In  those    same    walls   whose    overthrow   he 

sought, 
But  him  a  lesson  has  been  taught, 


294        CANTO  VIII— THE  INDIAN  TRAGEDY. 

For  he  has  gotten  back  his  own, 

Foretold  him  oft  by  Keokuk, 

Of  whom  he  now  longs  for  a  look. 

He  was  betrayed  by  his  red  kind, 

So  is  his  deed  stamped  in  his  mind, 

Since  oft  he  has  for  Beds  in  ambush  lain, 

What  he   has   done,   he  gets    through  Reds 

again. 

His  followers  to  death  have  mostly  gone, 
But  he  is  left  to  still  live  on, 
A  spectacle  for  his  white  foes 
Who  gaze  at  him  as  round  the  land  he  goes, 
A  captive  still  in  Indian  pride, 
But  always  with  a  Bluecoat  at  his  side. 

Now  let  us  mark  a  single  circumstance 
Then  give  Black  Hawk  a  parting  glance ; 
Again  he  stands   within   Fort   Armstrong's 

wall 

As  if  he  waited  for  another  call ; 
Along  that  island  in  the  stream 
No  more  he  sees  the  swan-wings  gleam 
Of  the  Great  Spirit  Manito 
Swooping  above  the  River's  flow — 
It  has  elsewhither  fled 
It  may  be  even  dead. 
While  he  stood  gazing  one  bright  day 
A  boat  shot  out  a  little  bay 
Upon  the  River 's  western  shore 
Just  where  he  once  intended  passing  o'er 


THE  END   OF  BLACK  HAWK.  £95 

To  take  the  fort  and  slay  the  garrison 

Now  guarding  him  with  sword  and  gun. 

Such  is  the  run  of  fortune's  whim: 

The  fort  he  gets  not,  but  the  fort  gets  him. 

Now  in  that  rocking  small  canoe 

Another  Indian  comes  to  view, 

Behold  Chief  Keokuk  once  more, 

With   face   turned    toward    the    fortressed 

shore ; 

Of  Black  Hawk's  capture  he  has  heard, 
And  now  he  comes  to  speak  a  friendly  word, 
Although  the  two  in  bitter  rivalry 
Had  long  competed  for  the  chieftaincy. 
Sage  Keokuk    had    been    the    white    man's 

friend, 

In  trying  days  his  help  would  always  lend. 
So  was  he  known  to  all  the  garrison, 
He  never  had  a  promise  once  betrayed, 
They  trusted  him  in  what  he  said, 
Would  him  a  favor  do,  could  it  be  done. 
Keokuk  begs  the  Hawk's  release 
And  pledges  him  to  keep  the  peace. 
So  now  behold  the  rivals  twain 
Together  paddling  their  canoe  again. 
They  reach  the  lodge  of  Fox  and  Sauk 
Along  the  eddying  Iowa, 
Without  the  gun  and  tomahawk, 
Composed  was  too  their  tonguey  fray, 
Which  frothed   so  loud  when  Black   Hawk 

marched  away 


296        CANTO  VIII— THE  INDIAN  TRAGEDY. 

With  haughty  rage  he  outward  darted, 

But  now  he  is  again  just  where  he  started, 

'Twere  better  he  had  not  begun, 

He  would  not  then  have  been  undone. 

So  ends  the  conflict  of  Black  Hawk, 

Still  living  as  the  theme  of  talk; 

As  he  has  been,  the  other  Reds  will  be 

And  so  he  types  the  Indian's  tragedy. 


Canto  J2mtf). 


LINCOLN'S  RETURN. 
I. 

"Much  have  I  knocked  about  in  this  cam- 
paign, 

Have  hither  thither  chased  and  back  again, 
Turning  always  in  a  kind  of  round, 
But  not  a  single  Redskin  have  I  found. 
I  seem  to  tread  a  circled  charm 
Which  keeps  me  whirling  all  the  while, 
So  that  I  cannot  do  a  harm, 
The  victim  of  the  f oeman  's  guile, 
Which  makes  us  run  to  this  and  that  alarm 
To  find  him  distant  many  a  mile. 
Shall  I  break  out  this  witch's  mill — 
Or  shall  I  treadle  in  it  still?" 

(297) 


298  CANTO   IX— LINCOLN'S   RETURN. 

So  Lincoln  crooned  upon  his  past 
Pondering  if  it  ought  to  last, 
To  be  discharged  has  come  the  chance : 
How  shall  he  use  that  circumstance  ? 
He  could  not  quite  suppress  a  sneer 
At  his  null  soldiery's  career; 
1  'From  Dixon's  Ferry,  hot  on  the  track, 
We  marched  some  days  and  then  marched 
I         back, 

Three  times  to  that  infernal  battle-ground 
Where  Major  Stillman  was  defeated 
We  sallied  forth  with  martial  sound 
To  have  a  fight — and  then  retreated, 
And  so  our  glorious  nothing  was  completed. 
Up  to  Galena  we  advanced  for  battle, 
But  only  heard  our  sabres  rattle 
Tuned  to  our  tonguey  tittle-tattle. 
'Twas  there  again  we  wheeled  about, 
And  bravely  put  ourselves  to  rout 
Not  catching  sight  of  any  foe : 
If  he  saw  us,  I  do  not  know. 
So  with  victorious  hearts  and  merry 
We  came  back  to  old  Dixon's  Ferry, 
That  spot  bewitched,  from  which  if  once  we 

parted, 

Would  jerk  us  round  to  whence  we  started 
Not  having  ever  drawn  a  knife  or 
Even  pulled  a  trigger ; 

And  so  with  toil,  we  traced  the  barren  cipher, 
Apart  from  any  fore-placed  figure, 


THE    PARTING    OF    THE    WAYS.  299 

And  this  is  what  we  have  come  out  to  die 

for." 
Whereat    he  drew    some    nothings    on    the 

ground 
With  his  sword's  scabbard  marking  round 

and  round. 

This  done,  he  stood  again  erect, 
And  spoke  his  mood  of  retrospect : 
*  *  But  up  and  off  we  rode  once  more, 
To  catch  the  foe  along  Kishwaukee's  shore, 
But  he  had  gone,  and  then  we  went  to  seek 
His  camp  on  Petonica's  creek, 
But  found  it  empty  of  the  game, 
All  I  remember  is  the  name, 
So  there  we  are  not  halted  long 
But  push  up  to  Lake  Koskonong 
Or  Lake  of  Mud  means  just  the  same, 
Its  character  deserves  a  greater  fame. 
Thence,  too,  the  enemy  had  fled, 
Although  my  nag  had  run  till  nearly  dead; 
Some  Indian  words  are  all  my  prey, 
And  them  I  cannot  rightly  say. 
So  in  this  war's  circummigration 
We  soon  shall  round  a  fresh  gyration ; 
Tomorrow  if  nothing  be  contrary 
We  shall  wind  up  again  at  Dixon's  Ferry. 
And  so  in  filling  out  a  line  of  zeros 
We  all  have  won  the  name  of  heroes ; 
Now  for  this  fightless  war's  contention 
Each  man  will  surely  have  a  pension, 


300  CANTO    IX— LINCOLN'S    RETURN. 

And  though  our  battles  have  been  those  of 

Quakers, 

We  still  shall  get  our  hundred  acres, 
A  warrant  for  the  public  land, 
Such  is  the  modesty  of  our  demand. ' ' 

Thus  Lincoln  mused  upon  his  soldiering 

Which  turned  out  such  a  fruitless  thing ; 

It  seemed  as  if  a  sportive  spook 

Had  led  him  round  in  many  a  crook ; 

The  marches  of  successive  days 

Him  interlinked  in  one  huge  maze — 

A  kind  of  treadmill  for  his  sinning 

Which  turned  him  ever  to  the  same  beginning. 

Still  he  had  seen  along  his  path 

The  bloody  signs  of  savage  scath, 

The  dripping  scalps  of  slain  white-faces 

Bespoke  the  furious  strife  of  races; 

In  him  arose  ancestral  wrath 

When  he  beheld,  wherever  he  might  roam, 

The  ashes  of  a  frontier  home, 

Or  forms  of  children  and  of  wife 

The  tomahawk  bereft  of  life ; 

But  in  the  skull  a  bleeding  bullet-hole 

Would  from  the  bottom  wring  his  soul 

That  born  revenge  of  his  to  wreak 

Transmitted  to  him  in  his  blood, 

In  spite  of  that  examplar  meek 

Who  called  up  his  forgiving  mood 

And  for  his  higher  nature  stood. 


THE    PARTING    OF    THE    WAYS.  3Q1 

But  he  has  .reached  his  stopping-place  once 

more 

At  Dixon  's  Ferry  on  the  shore 
Where  runs  the  ripple  of  a  stream 
Which  weaves  young  joy  into  his  dream 
Of  his  own  sunny  Sangamon 
Which  his  New  Salem  sleeps  upon, 
With  its  high  couch  along  the  bluff 
Whereof  he  could  not  think  enough. 
Nor  did  he  fail  to  pat  his  sword, 
And  glance  upon  its  graven  word 
His  thoughts  he  hardly  dared  confess 
Nor  would  he  tell  what  lay  in  his  caress 
Given  the  sword  of  Rutledges. 

To-morrow  is  the  mustering  out, 

But  something  he  did  hesitate  about ; 

His  fellow-soldiers  were  not  sad, 

To  see  their  own  again  they  would  be  glad. 

The  most  of  Lincoln's  company 

Already  were  of  service  free, 

The  weary  work  of  war  they  quit, 

Jack  Kelso  had  no  love  for  it, 

Could  now  be  found  on  his  old  log 

Fishing  besunned  for  perch  or  frog 

Slaking  his  thirst  betimes  with  swig  of  grog. 

But  Lincoln  was  in  sober  mood 

As  he  that  dancing  streamlet  viewed ; 

He  asked  himself,  see-sawed  in  doubt : 

"Can  I  be  here  of  further  good? 

I  do  not  like  to  turn  about 


302  CANTO   IX— LINCOLN'S   RETURN, 

Until  I  see  the  war  completed, 

Indian  Black  Hawk  is  undefeated, 

From  such  a  foe  to  seem  to  run 

Is  not  for  me  a  bit  of  fun ; 

Three  times  I  have  set  down  my  name 

Unwon  is  still  the  wily  game ; 

I  quiz  myself :  Shall  I  enlist  again, 

To  stay  up  here  till  end  of  the  campaign?" 

And  so  he  turned  the  matter  over, 

No  answer  could  he  then  discover. 

Within  the  camp  fantastic  joys 

Kept  rollicking  out  of  the  boys, 

Each  fellow  had  a  sweetheart  in  his  home, 

To  whom  he  now  would  quickly  come, 

His  soul's  desire  was  to  be  mated 

With  her  from  whom  he  had  been  separated ; 

Than  war  his  love  had  grown  much  stronger, 

Alone  he  could  not  stand  it  longer, 

And  still  one  day  he  had  to  wait 

For  his  certificate. 

Abe  Lincoln,  too,  abashed  New-Salemite, 

Long  felt  himself  to  be  in  that  same  plight, 

But  never  would  he  dare  confess  it, 

Although  he  hoped  the  Lord  would  bless  it. 

Now  rose  before  him  sour-faced  duty 

Contending  with  his  bosom's  beauty, 

Within  he  heard  the  double  argument 

On  what  might  be  the  right  intent : 

"Methinks  I've  paid  my  pledge's  price; 


THE   PARTING   OF    THE   WAYS.  393 

Others  went  off,  but  I  enlisted  thrice, 
Keeping  the  field  against  the  foe : 
Now  is  it  right  for  me  to  go  ? 
The  war  is  not  yet  ended, 
Unwon  the  point  for  which  we  have  con- 
tended, 

The  Indian  dares  to  scalp  at  will, 
In  spite  of  us  refusing  still 
To  cross  the  Mississippi's  bound, 
He  flees  before  he  can  be  found, 
In  trailing  him  he  keeps  us  busy, 
While  Stillman's  fate  has  made  me  dizzy 
With  my  inherited  dislike, 
And  the  red  slayer  I  long  to  strike, 
Grandfather  mine  within  my  brain 
I  see  once  more  by  Indian  slain, 
That  deed  is  lashing  me  again." 
The  brook  ran  wrestling  in  its  bed 
As  if  it  felt  a  struggle,  too, 
Its  channeled  waters  through  and  through, 
But  that  eased  not  the  throbbing  head 
Of  Lincoln  in  his  self's  own  interview; 
He  strolled  alone  into  the  wood, 
When  all  at  once  a  Redskin  stood 
Before  him  with  a  friendly  mien 
Whom  he  recalled  he  had  once  seen 
Unarmed  amid  a  vengeful  multitude 
Who  sought  to  let  his  guiltless  blood. 


304  CANTO    IX— LINCOLN'S    RETURN. 

II. 

It  was  the  messenger  old  Loo, 

Who  showed  again  his  spirit  true, 

Whom  Lincoln  rescued  from  the  soldiery, 

And  sent  him  on  his  errand,  free 

To  go  to  Keokuk,  the  friend 

Of  whites,  his  journey's  end. 

To  Lincoln  here  he  speaks  again 

And  tells  about  the  tribal  twain, 

The  strife  between  the  Hawk  and  Keokuk, 

What  he  had  kenned  in  his  own  look: 

'  *  The  Pottawatomies,  my  nation, 

The  chief  keeps  from  participation 

In  this  too  desperate  foray : 

Shabbona — you  should  mark  his  name — 

What  I  have  thought,  he  thinks  the  same. 

Nor  will  the  Winnebagoes  all  obey 

Their  prophet  devious  in  his  way ; 

White  Cloud  has  grown  a  little  shaky, 

Finding  the  ground  beneath  him  quaky; 

They  also  are  within  divided, 

Like  every  Indian  clan — two-sided— 

And  so  the  tribes  have  not  uprisen ; 

Black  Hawk  himself  will  soon  be  lodged  in 

prison. 

Another  rumor  I  have  learned, 
The  dark-stoled  priest  away  has  turned, 
And  left  his  victims  in  the  lurch 
"Despite  the  goodness  of  his  church ; 
He  was  a  cunning  fabricator, 


INDIAN   LOO    AGAIN.  305 

I  think  the  Hawk's  chief  instigator, 

But  when  he  saw  the  smallness  of  the  fight, 

He  stole  away  one  cloudy  night, 

While  still  his  head  he  could  slip  loose, 

But  left  his  pupil  in  the  noose. 

So  ran  the  story  which  I  found, 

Perchance  a  little  twisted  in  its  round. ' ' 

With  a  brief  chuckle  in  his  throat, 

Old  Loo  took  up  a  different  note : 

"I  cannot  think  you  wish  to  lose 

Another  little  bit  of  news : 

You  could  not  know  that  there  was  sent 

A  spy  to  watch  your  regiment 

As  it  marched  northward  to  attack — 

This  spy  disguised  sought  out  its  track 

And  played  the  hunter  bronzed  in  face, 

Although  mulatto  was  his  race. 

From  Prophetstown  in  stealth  he  came, 

Swartface  the  people  coined  his  name, 

A  slave  he  was  once  in  his  day, 

But  there  he  was  a  runaway ; 

Now  in  your  camp  he  heard  the  rumor  wild : 

You  freed  a  negro  mother  and  her  child ; 

That  raised  in  him  some  old  fond  notion, 

Which  stirred  far  down  his  strong  emotion; 

And  he  looked  at  you  the  very  hour 

When  me  you  rescued  from  the  crowd 

Mid  murderous  menaces  and  curses  loud, 

And  sent  me  guarded  off  with  power. 

20 


306  CANTO   IX—LINCOLN'8   RETURN. 

This  Swartface,  too,  has  quit  the  Indian  band, 
Is  seen  no  longer  in  the  Prophet 's  land, 
Some  sort  of  change  has  wrought  him  over, 
A  vengeful  speech  of  his  could  not  be  heard, 
How  furious  was  his  former  word ! 
Methinks  he  has  turned  out  a  lover. 
I  heard  him  say  that  you  he  would  not  fight, 
And  then  he  quickly  slid  off  into  night. ' ' 
Whereat  Loo  could  a  smile  uncover, 
Which  soon  lapsed  to  his  gravest  line, 
Forelighting  up  his  new  design, 
As  if  he  had  a  secret  to  impart 
Out  of  the  bottom  of  his  heart ; 
He  turneS  to  trembling  of  the  voice 
Though  hitherto  appearing  to  rejoice; 
And  so  to  Lincoln  now  began 
In  tender  tone  that  Indian :     . 

"One  thing  I  do  not  like  to  see, 
You  fight  my  people — that  hurts  me ; 
I  love  my  race,  would  stay  its  death — 
I  would  for  it  give  my  last  breath ; 
And,  too,  methinks  I  could  for  you 
Dare  just  the  self-same  deed  to  do, 
What  you  have  done  my  life  to  save 
I  could  pay  back  with  my  own  grave. 
But  you,  I  say,  are  out  of  place 
Arrayed  in  war  against  a  race, 
I  deem  you  have  another  call, 
No  more  to  racial  hate  the  thrall, 


INDIAN   LOO    AGAIN.  397 

I  read  it  even  in  your  face, 

That  character  of  yours  bespeaks  such  grace. 

You  saved  me  once,  I  would  save  you, 

I  to  your  destiny  am  true, 

So  hear  the  prayer  of  poor  old  Loo ; 

I  long  to  spend  my  days  in  peace 

Till  Manito  sends  life's  release. 

We  redmen  should  give  up  this  fight, 

And  bid  ourselves  within  unite, 

Instead  of  battling  with  the  stronger, 

Then  might  we  live  some  ages  longer. 

But  you  I  fain  would  see  once  more 

'Ere  passing  to  the  other  shore, 

And  though  you  come  the  redman's  foe, 

That 's  not  your  deepest  nature,  well  I  know ; 

I  judge  by  what  you  did  for  me — 

That  last  dark  strain  of  racial  enmity 

You  can  pluck  out  of  your  descent 

And  give  your  whole  to  your  true  bent : 

Your  call  is  still  to  save,  not  slay ; 

Take  to  your  heart  what  I  now  say, 

Your  message  'tis  I  bring  to-day, 

I,  poor  old  Loo,  your  Indian  friend, 

But  faithful  to  the  end." 

Then  Loo  sprang  out  among  the  trees, 
Leaping  a  ditch  ten  feet  with  ease, 
But  Lincoln,  at  the  sudden  visitation, 
Sank  soon  into  his  deepest  meditation, 
His  sword  he  laid  down  and  his  gun, 


308  CANTO   IX— LINCOLN'S   RETURN. 

With  them  he  felt  he  was  now  done ; 

His  thoughts  recalled  a  little  book, 

From  his  breast  pocket  it  he  took, 

He  glimpsed  a  verse  tuned  to  his  mood, 

Filling  his  heart  with  a  beatitude. 

Himself  he  then  again  did  interview, 

Voicing  his  purpose  new : 

* '  The  dawning  fact  to  me  is  plain, 

I  shall  not  here  enlist  again; 

I  feel  it  not  to  be  my  place, 

To  help  destroy  a  dying  race ; 

Rather  I  would  now  aid  it.  live 

If  I  but  knew  just  what  to  give. 

This  Potawatomie,  old  Loo, 

Has  told  me  rightly  what  to  do, 

Though  he  may  wear  an  Indian  face, 

He  has  ascended  out  of  race, 

"With  all  its  ages-aged  hate. 

That  is  the  human  conquest  over  fate ; 

And  now,  attuning  with  this  lesson  new, 

My  life  I  have  to  reconstrue, 

The  fateful  heirloom  of  my  ancestor 

I  can  no  longer  battle  for; 

I  must  clean  out  transmitted  spite 

Which  drives  me  to  keep  up  this  fight ; 

I  have  to  praise  thee,  good  old  Loo, 

To  thine  own  blood  thou  hast  been  true 

But  to  the  truth  of  all  men  truer  still, 

Thou  hast  exampled  me  in  will. 

Henceforth  I  shall  the  lower  self  outclimb, 


LINCOLN  AND  ROBERT  ANDERSON.         3Q9 

Though  from  the  father's  father  to  the  son 
It  has  come  down  to  me  through  time, 
My  higher  self  must  now  be  won. ' ' 

So  Lincoln,  when  he  entered  camp, 

Bore  on  his  soul  another  stamp ; 

If  now  he  feels  that  old  blood-stain 

From  parent's  stock  work  in  his  brain, 

He  casts  it  from  him,  to  be  free 

Of  the  grim  fates  of  ancestry. 

And  so  he  conquers  his  heredity; 

Grandfather 's  bullet  by  Indian  shot, 

Lay  lodged  in  Lincoln's  destined  lot; 

Another  Indian  now  has  cut  it  out 

With  gentle  words  and  left  no  scar  of  doubt ; 

Of  truth  he  gains  a  new  beginning, 

Of  manhood  wins  the  primal  winning, 

The  blot  transcended  of  his  birth, 

The  whole  asserted  of  his  human  worth. 

m. 

Into  the  fort  tall  Lincoln  strode 

Where  stood  the  officers'  abode, 

To  be  discharged  of  further  obligation 

Of  serving  in  his  present  station. 

No  captain  was  he  now  in  rank, 

But  lofty  private  lean  and  lank, 

High  towered  over  all  the  rest 

That  unkempt  head  which  was  the  best. 


310  CANTO   IX— LINCOLN'S   RETURN. 

But  look !  what  meets  his  quickened  eyes 

Which  flash  out  lightnings  of  surprise  ? 

Lieutenant  Eobert  Anderson, 

Of  all  those  officers  his  favorite  one, 

Steps  up  in  soldierly  salute, 

And  parleys  with  the  rude  recruit ; 

The  blue  consorts  with  butternut, 

Suppressing  the  West  Pointer's  strut: 

"I  recollect  your  presence  well, 
You  cast  on  all  a  kind  of  spell, 
When  with  Lieutenant  Davis  in  debate 
I  argued  on  the  nature  of  our  State. ' ' 
Then  Lincoln  rose  to  his  full  height 
And  spoke  a  word  far-glanced  in  sight : 
'  *  When  you  there  said  you  would  fire  back, 
I  thought  I  saw  the  very  man 
Who  would  in  time  dare  that  attack 
Which  seems  to  rise  into  the  coming  plan. 
Let  drown  the  dream  whoever  can — 
On  Charleston  bay  a  sudden  glare 
Beheld  I  with  its  hellish  flare, 
The  scintillating  curve  of  the  first  shell 
I  glimpsed  just  as  it  downward  fell 
Into  the  fortress  where  you  stood — 
You  answered  it  the  best  you  could ; 
At  once  the  blazes  mounted  higher ; 
The  entire  sky  from  that  one  shot  took  fire, 
And  spread  thence  over  land  and  ocean, 
The.  world  shook  in  the  deep  commotion. ' ' 


LINCOLN  AND  ROBERT  ANDERSON. 

Lieutenant  Anderson  sprang  back 

As  if  he  heard  that  future  cannon's  crack, 

Startled  by  a  wild  sonorous  dream 

Which  still  the  truth  to  him  might  seem. 

Forefeeling  far  some  coming  lot 

Upon  that  fatal  spot, 

Collecting  all  himself  he  turned 

Unto  a  present  point  that  burned: 

* '  Much  trouble  down  in  Caroline ! 

That  haunts  me  with  a  face  malign 

Forever  looking  into  mine, 

Whereat  I  often  have  to  start, 

Beholding  my  demonic  counterpart, 

Which  comes  to  challenge  me  to  fight : 

I  cannot  free  me  of  that  sight. 

I  seem  to  hear  the  President 

Bid  me  hold  out  where  I  was  sent 

And  if  it  comes  to  that,  I  must — 

I  shall  not  think  of  failing  in  my  trust ; 

Back  of  my  heated  argument 

With  Davis  lay  just  that  intent. ' ' 

Then  Lincoln  spake  with  thoughtful  mien, 
Yet  with  his  eyesight  flashing  keen : 
' '  Like  phantoms — let  me  too  confess — 
Do  oft  my  day  and  night  distress ; 
Whenever  I  may  read  Calhoun, 
The  strife  seems  coming  soon ; 
Between  his  lines  there  roars  a  revel 
Begotten  of  the  very  Devil, 


312  CANTO    IX— LINCOLN'S    RETURN. 

Who  will  our  Nation  disunite 

Preparatory  to  a  fight. 

I  read  the  speech  of  Senator  Hayne 

When  Webster  tackled  him  in  mighty  strain ; 

Both  spoke  the  time's  protagonists, 

Words  to  be  followed  by  the  fists 

Which  hold  the  sword  and  gun, 

Until  some  great  new  deed  be  done. 

When  men  begin  in  writ  to  think, 

Blood  often  courses  after  ink ; 

If  once  the  age  its  skin  will  shed, 

The  flaying  pen  runs  red. 

Though  Jackson  be  now  President 

And  publishes  his  declaration, 

That  comes  to  me  a  far  prefigurement 

Of  another  stronger  proclamation ; 

And  since  I  heard  that  hot  debate 

Between  yourself  and  Davis  over  there, 

Outside  I  saw  the  fight  of  fate 

Upon  the  glowering  air ; 

I  am  become  all  one  prognostication 

Of  How  and  When  and  Where." 

Thus  Lincoln  the  oracle  had  spelt 

Which  dimly  Anderson  forefelt, 

As  if  he  might  it  yet  enact 

When  the  world  has  gotten  ready 

To  whelm  it  into  fact 

Just  at  the  whirling  moment's  eddy. 

Soon  Anderson  again  spake  out 


LINCOLN  AND  ROBERT  ANDERSON.         3^3 

What  he  was  thinking  then  aboui : 
"I  talked  with  Davis  afterward 
As  soon  as  we  had  mounted  guard; 
You  gave  him  quite  a  little  fluster 
When  he  had  taken  you  in  hand  to  muster, 
By  thumping  down  your  fist  with  such  a  clat- 
ter, 

As  if  you  something  sought  to  batter. 
That  oath  to  you  he  would  administer, 
You  made  him  feel  it  something  sinister — 
More  deeply  than  a  rude  annoyer, 
You  seemed  to  him  to  turn  destroyer." 
To  this  replied  gigantic  Abraham : 
"You  tell  exactly  what  I  am; 
When  I  behold  him  and  his  like, 
Such  speeches  make  me  boldly  strike; 
So  I  fetched  down  my  fist  before  me 
When  he  unto  the  Constitution  swore  me; 
Calhoun's  successor  he  may  be, 
And  execute  the  same  decree ; 
Methinks  he  showed  a  high  ambition 
Which  may  in  years  come  to  fruition, 
And  of  our  Union's  overthrow 
He  may  be  generalissimo. 
That  keen  discussion  started  up  in  me 
An  undercurrent  of  antipathy, 
Which  makes  me  deeply  hesitate 
About  my  peaceful  Quaker  trait — 
Or  am  I  born  to  war's  estate? 
My  eyes  first  looked  on  old  Kentucky, 


314  CANTO    IX— LINCOLN'S   RETURN. 

That  loyal  commonwealth  and  lucky, 
E'en  if  she  Davis  bore  with  me 
In  double  strange  maternity. 
He  ought  indeed  to  be  my  brother 
If  she  of  both  of  us  be  mother ; 
Again  'tis  Cain  and  Abel 's  story, 
Whereby  the  Bible  even  opens  gory." 

Then  Anderson  gave  answer  straight : 

"  Kentucky  is  my  native  state, 

As  well  as  that  of  Davis  and  of  yon, 

And  I  shall  stay  there  through, 

To  my  dear  homeland  ever  true ; 

It  seems  the  center  of  this  nation, 

Whence  ray  the  courses  of  migration, 

Dividing  into  south  and  north 

Its  hardy  sons  have  wandered  forth ; 

Davis  and  you  have  gone  to  roam, 

Far  from  your  old  Kentucky  home ; 

Gulfward  he  has  moved  to  stay, 

But  you  have  turned  the  other  way, 

Into  this  level  free  northwest, 

Now  settling  up  with  mighty  zest 

That  soon  it  will  be  peopled  more 

Than  our  Kentucky  starting  years  before, 

Though  she  be  still  the  only  key 

Which  locks  the  nation  into  unity, 

With  all  its  separate  states  both  north  and 

south, 
From  Maine  to  Mississippi's  mouth." 


LINCOLN  AND  ROBERT  ANDERSON.         315 

"That  is  my  view,  I  do  agree," 
Said  Lincoln  in  a  note  of  glee, 
' '  And  with  that  new  Kentucky  key 
The  President  will  lock  this  nation 
Into  a  newly  bonded  federation 
Which  will — the  whole  of  it — be  free. ' ' 

Lieutenant  Anderson  somewhat  demurred 

To  this  far-off  prophetic  word, 

But  let  it  pass  with  look  of  wonder 

As  if  he  heard  a  distant  clap  of  thunder. 

Still  he  could  not  escape  the  spell, 

He  too  must  dare  somewhat  foretell : 

*  *  Now  you  and  Davis  move  just  opposite, 

Between  you  two  may  be  the  fight ; 

Already  you  have  gone  apart  so  far, 

That  if  you  two  be  leaders,  there  is  war. 

But  in  the  middle  let  me  stay 

Hoping  against  the  fatal  day." 

So  guaged  Lieutenant  Robert  Anderson 

The  men  twinned  deep  in  destiny, 

The  makers  of  the  new  World's  History, 

Whose  deeds  were  coming  on  the  run, 

Which  also  he  would  have  to  face. 

But  now  he  turned  aside  the  talk  with  grace 
To  something  then  just  taking  place : 
"The  pretty  daughter  of  old  Zack 
Jeff  has  been  bravely  wooing, 
And  cannot  be  thrown  off  the  track 


316  CANTO   IX— LINCOLN'S   RETURN. 

But  keeps  defiantly  pursuing, 
And  dares  even  to  jaw  back. 
The  father  scorns  such  son-in-law, 
Kegarding  him  a  jack-of-straw 
Strutting  about  in  uniform, 
But  impudent  and  disputatious, 
Bound  at  some  day  to  raise  a  storm 
With  his  big  tongue  of  words  fallacious. 
Old  Bough  and  Ready  is  a  curious  fellow, 
Though  often  harsh,  can  turn  to  mellow ; 
He  questions  slavery  in  this  nation 
But  works  three  hundred  slaves  on  his  planta- 
tion. 

But  Davis  will  retain  the  daughter,    • 
E'en  though  it  come  to  parent's  slaughter, 
He  will  defy  old  Zachary, 
Who  can  him  but  his  house  deny, 
Which  will  do  little  good 
In  softening  those  lovers'  mood. 
And  this  I  say  of  Jefferson, 
Just  what  he  has  to  his  superior  done, 
He  to  his  country  all  will  do 
'Ere  he  gets  through. 
Such  characters  as  his  seem  bound 
To  run  of  life  the  complete  round 
Ere  they  be  put  beneath  the  ground." 
To  Lincoln's  soul  these  words  went  home 
Shedding  a  sort  of  shadowy  gloam; 
He  hardly  knew  which  was  the  way 
He  felt  just  then — to  curse  or  pray ; 


LINCOLN  AND  ROBERT  ANDERSON. 


The  other  of  it  might  be  eithor, 

So  he  did  neither. 

A  word  from  him  was  far  to  seek, 

Still  out  the  silences  he  tried  to  speak  : 

''Yes,  I  shall  watch  the  rest  of  his  career, 

In  spite  of  me  I  shiver  with  a  secret  fear 

Of  something  which  I  cannot  tell, 

And  yet  it  puts  me  in  a  little  Hell, 

Whose  far-off  brimstone  I  can  even  smell." 

Therewith  Abe  Lincoln  made  his  long  legs 

spin 

A  rapid  march  till  he  was  out  of  sight 
Of  those  blue-coated  gentlemen 
Whose  duty  sole  it  was  to  fight  ; 
At    present    he    might    deem    himself    dis- 

charged, 

Yet  really  he  knew  his  service  but  enlarged, 
Till  a  new  order  was  by  time  unsealed 
When  he  again  would  have  to  take  the  field. 
While  on  the  path  he  quickly  went, 
Welled  up  his  fresh  presentiment: 
''Davis  again  may  muster  me 
For  a  much  longer  war 
And  deadlier  by  far  — 
But  I  may  have  to  muster  him  —  I  see.  '  ' 
So  Lincoln  came  to  know  the  officers 
Whom  the  whole  Nation  deemed  as  hers, 
And  nearly  all  were  Southerners; 
In  them  he  saw  the  inner  scission 


318  CANTO   IX— LINCOLN'S   RETURN. 

Which  sometime  might  lead  to  division, 
He  caught  the  spirit  of  the  regular, 
And  measured  him  for  war. 
He  felt  himself  in  strange  condition, 
Within  he  heard  the  far  monition, 
What  was  to  come  lurked  in  his  soul 
And  seemed  his  life-line  to  control. 

But  so  it  comes  once  more  about 

That  Abraham  is  mustered  out, 

He  treads  in  haste  along  the  way 

To  find  his  friends  without  delay; 

He  soundly  sleeps  with  them  that  night 

Along  Rock  river's  purling  stream, 

Till  soft  Aurora's  rosy  gleam 

Awakes  him  in  another  plight, 

For  when  he  goes  to  mount  his  steed,   'tis 

gone — 

Stolen  before  the  dawn. 
Others  were  in  the  selfsame  case, 
Still  they  put  on  a  happy  face, 
For  they  were  going  home  right  off, 
So  what's  the  use  to  sulk  or  scoff? 
Still  Lincoln  spoke  a  word  unsought 
Indexing  well  his  thought. 
"Good  uncle  Jimmy,  how  shall  I  hail  him 
When  I  again  shall  see  New  Salem? 
His  nag  I  cannot  now  restore, 
It  neighs  for  me  no  more ; 
But  here  still  hangs  my  loyal  sword, 


LINCOLN    AND    SWARTFACE. 

To  its  high  owner  I  shall  keep  my  word, 
And  hand  it  back  to  that  fair  maid 
Who  guiding  me  drew  forth  the  blade. ' ' 
Thence  all  the  way  he  had  to  walk 
Enlivening  the  time  with  talk, 
He  oped  the  bag  of  anecdote 
Of  which  the  old  ones  he  would  quote; 
But  the  bran-new  ones  also  started, 
Which  he  with  double  zest  imparted; 
For  they  were  coined  from  his  experiences, 
What  he  had  sensed  with  all  his  senses, 
And  even  a  kind  of  Iliad 
Made  of  this  Black  Hawk  war  he  had, 
A  string  of  stories  strung  somehow 
From  starting-point  awhirl  till  now 
Out  of  New  Salem  it  did  move 
Northward  wherever  he  might  rove, 
A  hundred  turns  it  curved  around 
And  out  of  each  would  peep  a  jest, 
Which  pricked  to  laughter  every  breast, 
And  so  the  tune  ran  on  a  bound. 

IV. 

As  Lincoln  and  his  comrades  sped 
Along  the  road,  they  saw  ahead 
A  single  shape  of  man  who  stood 
And  waited  for  them  near  a  wood 
Out  of  whose  thicket  he  had  crept 
From  leafy  bed  where  he  had  slept. 


320  CANTO    IX— LINCOLN'S   RETURN. 

Well  armed  with  pistol  and  with  knife, 

And  eke  a  gun  he  held  to  guard  his  life ; 

He  made  no  sign  of  showing  fight 

He  would  have  peace  if  in  his  might ; 

A  visage  dark  but  keen  and  bold, 

His  hair  a  cap  did  quite  enfold 

So  that  its  curls  could  not  be  seen, 

In  shade  he  stood  out  of  the  sheen; 

Some  prairie  chickens  he  had  shot 

He  gave  them  to  that  tired  knot 

Of  ravenous  three  men; 

Two  turned  to  cook  their  supper  then, 

But  he  and  Lincoln  got  into  a  talk, 

And  soon  they  took  a  little  walk, 

The  comer  new  'gan  speaking  lower. 

The  words  fell  from  him  slower, 

"I  heard  them  call  you  Abe  today, 

Are  you  not  Captain  Lincoln,  pray? 

To  see  you  has  been  long  my  plan 

Old  Loo  declared  you  were  the  man — 

You  saved  him  from  a  bloody  fate, 

I  saw  you  too,  at  your  own  risk — 

That  hunter  there  was  I — you  did  him  whisk 

Out  of  a  band  of  men  irate, 

Then  sent  him  off  safe  from  their  hate. 

And  to  that  woman  black  and  child 

You  were  a  guardian  angel  mild, 

So  told  me  Loo,  the  Potawatomie, 

Of  Indian  blood  the  best  was  he — 

The  noblest  of  his  savage  race, 


LINCOLN    AND    SWARTFACE.  321 

He  had  a  touch  of  Heaven's  grace, 

He  would  a  life  of  service  lead, 

Which  he  was  taught  by  Johnny  Appleseed. 

He  said  to  me  in  confidence, 

No  red-skin  understood  his  sense; 

Still  he  would  help  his  people  in  their  need." 

Then  Swartface  of  a  sudden  stood, 

He  had  come  to  the  deepest  wood, 

Above  a  whisper  scarce  he  spoke, 

And  yet  in  it  was  heard  the  tender  stroke, 

As  if  to  Lincoln  there  he  would  unscroll 

The  hidden  writ  upon  his  soul : 

"That  negress  and  her  little  boy 

Are  haunting  me  with  pain  and  joy; 

I  heard  about  them  from  your  men, 

And  now  they  will  not  quit  my  ken ; 

Lincoln,  a  secret  let  me  tell  to  thee, . 

I  am  a  man  by  law  unfree, 

Half -black  my  coursing  blood,  half-white — 

In  me  two  races  clinch  and  fight. 

Know  that  I  am  a  runaway, 

And  still  the  price  of  bondage  I  must  pay 

For  which  I  never  promise  gave ; 

My  swarthy  mother  was  a  slave 

My  lordly  father  such  could  never  be, 

And  so  the  twain  collide  in  me. 

In  old  Kentucky  left  behind 

My  wife  and  child  passed  out  of  mind ; 

But  now  to  me  they  are  called  back 

21 


322  CANTO    IX— LINCOLN'S    RETURN. 

By  what  I've  heard  about  your  deed, 

In  which  a  mother  and  her  babe  were  freed; 

How  can  I  come  upon  their  track? 

I  fain  would  know — they  may  be  mine — 

Cannot  you  speak  to  me  some  sign?" 

Then  Lincoln  told  him  the  whole  fact, 

And  spoke  of  Quaker  Ellwood's  act, 

Describing  too  the  latter 's  residence, 

Then  gave  his  words  another  sense: 

"But  go  along  with  us  today, 

To  furnish  food  upon  the  way, 

All  of  our  weapons  have  been  taken, 

We  are  a  trio  quite  forsaken, 

This  sword  must  never  leave  my  side 

Whatever  may  betide, 

It  is  to  me  the  dearest  token 

To  bring  it  home  I  have  forespoken." 

Still  told  his  changed  mind  Swartface : 

"The  Indian  is  a  dying  race 

To  whites  they  are  not  half  so  much  the  prey 

As  to  themselves — they  one  another  slay — 

With  them  I  shall  no  longer  stay. 

No  hand  can  help — I  have  it  tried— 

That  race  is  bound  for  suicide, 

And  soon  will  reach  their  destination, 

Not  far  off  now  is  their  last  station. 

Among  them  I  have  lived  for  years 

And  shared  their  race's  hopes  and  fears, 

Faithful  I  served  them  as  I  could 


LINCOLN    AND    SWARTFACE. 


And  found  that  I  could  no  good. 

I  tell  you  something  deepest  in  my  heart 

Which  bids  me  feel  your  coming  part: 

When  you  saved  Loo  the  Indian, 

Still  more  when  you  turned  free  the  African, 

You  rose  in  me  the  races  '  man.  '  ' 

Then  Lincoln  said  :  *  *  It  is  far  in  the  night, 

The  hours  have  bidden  us  to  sleep, 

And  snatch  a  dream  out  of  the  Future  's  keep, 

Tomorrow  with  the  sun  will  come  the  light." 

Swartface  remained  among  the  three, 

Lincoln  alone  knew  of  his  pedigree, 

But  kept  it  hidden  from  the  rest 

Who  ne'er  suspected  in  their  guest 

The  tainted  strain  of  negro  blood, 

Which  he  knew  how  in  stealth  to  hood  — 

He  mostly  at  a  distance  kept 

And  through  the  forest  slyly  crept 

Hunting  to  find  for  them  some  game; 

At  dusk  again  to  camp  he  came, 

While  others  slept  and  snored  outright, 

With  Lincoln  he  would  talk  by  night  ; 

And  so  he  passed  some  thoughtful  days 

As  if  he  studied  in  a  school 

Eemodeling  his  spirit's  ways, 

Which  now  he  deems  those  of  a  fool. 

One  evening  Lincoln  all  at  once  spoke  out  : 

'  '  I  now  recall  what  once  you  asked  about, 

Of  that  slave-mother's  mien  some  sign, 


324  CANTO   IX— LINCOLN'S   RETURN. 

Some  mark  of  body  or  some  salient  line. 

I  recollect  a  tufted  mole 

Suspended  crisply  on  her  chin, 

As  if  to  notify  her  bronzed  skin : 

This  mole  would  work  a  little  spell 

When  down  to  it  a  furrowed  tear  would  roll 

And  gleam  a  moment  ere  it  fell." 

But  hardly  had  the  word  been  spoken 

When  Swartface  leaped  and  lisped:    "That 

is  the  token ! 

What  I  must  do  now,  well  I  know, 
I  spy  the  way  I  have  to  go ; 
Good  Lincoln,  you  have  set  me  right. 
Farewell !  I  must  be  off  tonight, 
An  outer  slavery  I  had, 
My  inner  slavery  was  just  as  bad, 
My  hate  of  family,  my  hate  of  you, 
My    hate    e'en    of    myself    I    have    fought 

through : 

Both  by  your  word  and  by  your  deed, 
Lincoln,  liberator,  you  have  me  freed." 

V. 

The  other  men  had  gone  their  way, 

Each  homeward  turned  that  very  day 

And  so  it  happed  that  Lincoln  forward  trode 

Without  companions  of  the  road; 

He  sauntered  dreamily  alone, 

The  July  sun  his  path  beshone; 

The  case  of  that  new  runaway 


LINCOLN    AND    JOHNNY    APPLE8EED.       325 

Brought  his  foreboding  into  play. 
Through  a  small  puncture  in  Time's  walls 
Between  the  Future  and  the  Past  there  falls 
An  ever-roaring  double  stream— 
Flowing  forward-backward  it  doth  seem — 
It  is  the  Now  half  fact  half  dream, 
Through  it  is  Lincoln  borne  to  what  will  be 
And  glimpses  veiled  futurity, 
But  to  the  Present  ever  is  whirled  back, 
He  has  to  tread  inside  his  track. 
Along  a  sluggish  creek  he  wends 
Which  crooks  about  in  many  bends, 
And  oft  is  in  itself  divided, 
Going  its  watery  way  two-sided, 
Bosoming  many  islets  green 
On  one  of  which  some  trees  are  seen 
Well  laden  with  their  fruited  treasure 
Giving  to  all  with  Nature's  measure. 
The  country  was  a  prairie  blank 
Covered  with  grasses  tall  and  rank, 
Which  fire  consumed  once  every  year 
Scarce  leaving  there  an  herby  spear; 
But  that  green  islet  was  a  spot  protected, 
By  human  foresight  well  selected 
For  that  small  orchard  on  it  growing, 
And  now  its  fruit  to  mortals  showing, 
Who  ate  thereof  in  prayerful  pleasure, 
Minding  a  miracle  they  could  not  measure. 

The  riddle  Lincoln  sought  to  grapple 
Just  as  he  bit  into  an  apple 


326  CANTO   IX— LINCOLN'S   RETURN. 

Which  had  an  old  f amilar  taste : 

''What  brought  it  to  this  untamed  waste 

So  many,  many  years  ago! 

It  must  have  had  the  time  to  grow. 

Who  was  the  providential  man 

Whose  brain  was  stamped  with  such  a  plan — 

Forethought  this  tree  beset  with  dangers, 

Fire,  flood,  wild  beasts,  the  prairie 's  rangers  ? 

Me  thinks  a  story  once  I  heard 

Of  such  a  man,  to  such  deeds  stirred, 

Dear  me !  I  may  have  met  him  too, 

If  memory  plays  me  not  untrue, 

Those  apple  trees  I  oft  have  seen 

In  screened  nook  where  I  have  been; 

There  is  a  presence  with  them  here. 

I  see  it  not,  but  it  is  near." 

Some  steps  he  took  along  the  shore 

Sunk  in  himself  down  to  the  core ; 

A  little  skiff  came  up  which  bore 

One  person  gliding  on  the  stream 

And  scanning  sharply  every  place, 

Yet  with  a  kindly  look  upon  his  face, 

Which  glanced  a  message  in  its  gleam. 

Not  very  stanch  was  framed  the  craft, 

Waddled  about  from  fore  to  aft, 

Slipping  its  path  through  bending  reeds 

It  bore  some  sacks  of  apple  seeds. 

"Will  you  not  take  me  in  your  boat! 

Homeward  with  you  I  wish  to  float." 

"Just  the  man  I  wish  to  see, 

Come  take  your  seat  and  plant  with  me." 


LINCOLN    AND    JOHNNY    APPLESEED.      327 

The  pair  soon  sped  into  the  Illinois 
Leaving  the  little  creek  behind, 
And  glided  on  in  mutual  joy, 
While  they  each  other  sought  to  find 
By  penetrating  to  the  mind ; 
Once  Lincoln  raised  aloft  his  oar 
A  ringed  water- snake  to  smite, 
His  mate  had  halted  him  before 
His  blow  upon  that  wriggling  coil  could  light, 
Saying:    "Why  start  an  endless  strife? 
That  is  a  piece  of  universal  life; 
You  never  can  get  rid  of  such  a  fight." 
The  man  harmed  not  a  living  creature 
He  seemed  to  know  each  little  feature 
Which  lined  the  face  of  good  old  Mother  Nat- 
ure, 

With  whom  he  lived  in  subtle  sympathy 
And  heard  her  voice  in  every  tree. 
"I  turn  her  to  the  friend  of  man," 
He  said,  '  *  though  often  deemed  the  foe ; 
'Tis  she  who  carries  out  my  plan, 
And  makes  the  planted  seeds  to  grow. 
When  she  is  loved,  she  will  kiss  back, 
If  to  her  love  you  know  the  knack, 
This  law  to  me  is  not  a  fable: 
Nature  at  heart" is  charitable." 

Lincoln  bethought  the  turn  of  speech, 
That  voice  seemed  out  the  Past  to  reach  : 
"I  must  have  heard  you  long  ago, 


328  CANTO   IX— LINCOLN'S   RETURN. 

But  where  it  was  I  do  not  know." 
"So  you  before  to  me  have  spoken: 
The  fact  I  think  I  can  you  token" 
Quoth  with  a  backward  glance  the  man, 
Then  delving  in  himself  began : 
"Now  if  you  wish  to  solve  this  riddle, 
Just  see  yourself  in  the  Ohio's  middle 
On  your  flat-boat  bob  up  and  down, 
'Twas  there  we  came  in  sight  together 
And  both  our  crafts  and  souls  did  tether; 
We  had  just  turned  a  little  town, 
And  reached  the  river  at  its  mouth, 
From  which  you  kept  on  going  South, 
While  I  wheeled  slowly  up  the  turbid  torrent 
Fleeing  that  lower  stream  to  me  abhorrent, 
Just  where  on  both  its  shores  it  laves 
A  land  of  slaves. 
In  all  our  talk  we  did  agree 
Insouled  in  one  deep  harmony. 
You  spoke  of  that  Ohio  stream 
And  titled  it  half-slave  half -free, 
While  of  its  liberation  you  would  dream 
Addressing  it  while  rolling  past : 
"This  half  ness  of  you  cannot  last." 
Those  words  I  never  could  forget, 
They  seem  to  designate  you  yet, 
And  whisper  too  the  future  man, 
Foretokening  his  ripest  plan." 

The  repartee  hit  Lincoln  home 

He  wondered  who  so  far  could  roam : 


LINCOLN    AND    JOHNNY    APPLESEED.       339 

"You  have  not  told  me  whence  you  came, 

Nor  mentioned  yet  your  name." 

4 '  You  have  to  know  me  in  my  deed 

That  is  for  me  the  only  meed." 

Then  suddenly  he  pulled  the  oar, 

And  ran  his  boat  upon  the  shore 

Where  a  young  orchard  had  struck  root, 

And  smiled  with  ruddy  ripening  fruit ; 

There  under  the  full  tops  of  trees 

Looked  up  a  way-worn  emigrant 

Plucking  whatever  might  him  please, 

And  eating  of  it  at  his  ease, 

Since  fare  to  him  was  somewhat  scant; 

Not  far  away  his  tented  wagon  stood, 

His  wife  and  children  sharing  that  new  food, 

Which  they  had  never  planted  even, 

It  fell  to  them  as  if  from  Heaven, 

So  all  their  faces  had  the  air 

Of  feeling  though  not  voicing  prayer. 

To  Lincoln  now  spoke  up  his  mate : 

"This  stranger  has  aught  to  relate 

About  his  trip  up  to  this  date ; 

He  can  answer  what  you  ask, 

I  know  him  not — he  knows  my  task." 

The  emigrant  now  starts  to  tell 
What  him  in  wandering  befell, 
As  he  sped  onward  through  the  land — 
A  wilderness  unroaded  and  unplanned; 
Facing  in  hope  the  sunset  ray 


330  CANTO   IX— LINCOLN'S  RETURN. 

He  fared  along  his  westering  way ; 

Still  when  he  reached  a  river's  shore 

He  found  somebody  had  been  there  before, 

And  left  a  little  helpful  store. 

"I  crossed  the  Alleghanies  bleak 

A  home  for  me  and  mine  to  seek" — 

He  spake  with  look  of  reverence; 

"Already  on  the  Ohio  river 

I  found  the  gift  of  some  good  giver 

Just  in  the  pinch  of  Providence; 

On  the  Muskingum  too  he  left  his  trace 

In  many  a  little  work  of  grace; 

And  the  Scioto  showed  his  hand 

In  growing  orchards  on  its  strand; 

When  we  the  distant  Wabash  reached, 

The  self-same  sermon  there  was  preached ; 

And  now  out  here  on  the  Illinois 

You  see  me  that  same  soul  enjoy. 

Upon  this  fact  the  people  have  descanted, 

They  say  it  is  one  man  who  planted 

All  such  far-strayed  fruit-bearing  trees, 

And  seems  to  be  and  do  what  he  may  please ; 

They  make  him  young,  they  make  him  old, 

They  make  him  dead,  they  make  him  living, 

And  of  him  marvelous  tales  are  told, 

For  everywhere  is  found  his  giving, 

He  seems  all  time,  he  seems  all  space, 

Is  every  kin  and  every  race, 

Upon  this  western  world  is  stamped  his  trace ; 

Through  all  these  stories  runs  one  plan 


LINCOLN    AND    JOHNNY    APPLESEED. 

Featuring  the  universal  man." 
' '  What  is  his  name, ' '  then  Lincoln  cried 
Drawing  nearer  to  the  speaker's  side: 
"Upon  this  point  all  are  agreed — 
They  call  him  Johnny  Appleseed. 
But  more  than  one  he  is  to  me 
A  multitude  he  seems  to  be, 
Perchance  one  spirit  in  all  his  transforma- 
tions, 
One  Christ  in  many  incarnations." 

At  once  the  wanderer  sprang  to  his  boat, 

Prepared  himself  to  set  afloat; 

Lincoln  musing  followed  slower, 

But  soon  he  took  the  part  of  rower, 

And  both  again  down  stream  were  gliding, 

Over  the  watery  surface  riding; 

Each  seemed  in  silence  to  reflect 

On  what  they  just  had  heard; 

The  younger  would  the  sense  detect 

Couched  in  the  emigrant's  last  word. 

Anon  the  wanderer  looked  up  to  say 

The  weighty  thought  which  in  him  lay. 

Now  Lincoln  when  he  saw  the  man  was  ready 

No  longer  oared  the  boat, 

But  let  it  simply  float, 

Yet  sought  to  make  his  soul  more  steady, 

Intoning  in  his  heart  a  gentle  note : 

"I  see  you  are  a  spirit  good, 

And  still  I  have  not  understood 


332  CANTO   IX— LINCOLN'S   RETURN. 

Why  all  your  days  you  long  to  roam 
And  seem  to  have  no  settled  home. 
Thou  new  knight-errant  of  the  West 
Tell  me,  what  is  thy  lofty  quest?" 

That  was  of  questions  just  the  test  — 
The  wanderer  at  once  spoke  out 
For  of  himself  he  showed  no  doubt: 
"Dear  friend,  I  note  in  every  argument 
You  take  to  story-telling  as  your  bent, 
And  as  you  better  see  within  a  vail, 
So  I  shall  tell  me  in  a  little  tale: 
I  am  a  knight  of  the  Holy  Grail — 
The  Holy  Grail  American 
Containing  the  new  Sacrament, 
'Tis  the  one  task  of  my  life's  plan, 
The  service  on  which  I  am  sent. 
The  ancient  knight  essayed  the  pure — 
Pure  in  his  thought  and  word  and  deed, 
Of  Heaven  felt  he  quite  secure 
If  he  in  life  fulfilled  that  creed. 
It  was  a  training  excellent, 
But  to  himself  alone  it  bent; 
His  worth  became  a  narrow  pride 
Which  wrapped  him  in  liis  little  hide, 
And  on  himself  his  virtues  spent, 
But  somehow  he  must  get  outside, 
Fling  off  his  own  integument. 
So  he  will  reach  his  deeper  mind 
That  his  true  self  anew  he  find 


LINCOLN    AND    JOHNNY    APPLESEED.       333 

His  goodness  must  in  might  break  forth 

And  give  itself  unto  the  other, 

For  virtue  has  not  virtue 's  worth 

Unless  imparted  to  the  brother; 

Yet  even  this  is  not  the  highest  height 

Another  excellence  has  dawned  in  sight.'* 

The  stranger  looked  up  at  the  sky 

A  far-off  forelook  trembled  in  his  eye. 

While  he  continued  slowly  speaking 

As  if  the  better  word  he  might  be  seeking : 

"Kind  charity  may  turn  to  very  pelf, 

Unless  it  helps  the  hand  to  help  itself, 

Hamstrung  would  be  the  human  deed 

If  man  should  get  outright  just  to  his  need; 

You  ask  of  me  my  mission  to  reveal : 

I  give  my  life  to  the  common  weal, 

Not  to  this  single  one  alone; 

Each  has  to  come  and  take  his  own, 

By  his  free  will  this  must  be  done. 

And  so  my  little  plot  I  plant 

For  all  to  satisfy  their  want ; 

I  give  unto  the  whole  community 

Each  worthy  striver's  opportunity, 

Embracing  all  of  them  I  can — 

I  wish  it  were  the  genus  man — 

And  if  I  owned  Almighty's  sanity, 

I  had  included  all  humanity." 

On  vacancy  young  Lincoln  gazes 

Trying  to  catch  the  far-off  fleeting  phrases, 


334  CANTO    IX— LINCOLN'S   RETURN. 

And  make  them  speak  their  meaning  out 

In  some  plain  words  he  knows  about ; 

The  stranger  then  begins  again 

And  fantasies  anew  his  deeper  strain: 

* '  The  leper  I  have  found  in  many  a  story, 

Whom  poets  crown  with  greater  glory 

Lying  in  rags  along  the  way 

Where  he  is  wont  for  alms  to  pray. 

How  came  the  leper  there,  is  what  I  ask, 

And  with  the  question  dawns  the  larger  task; 

I  must  look  after  him  before 

He  lies  a  beggar  at  my  door, 

Nay,  I  must  deem  myself  a  sleeper 

Until  I  stop  his  being  leper. ' ' 

The  man  then  inward  turned  with  look  and 

speech, 

And  in  another  vein  began  to  teach : 
' '  Not  barely  to  the  individual — 
I  seek  to  give  to  all; 
Yet  charity  to  fallen  man 
I  often  have  at  once  to  give 
That  the  unfortunate  may  live: 
But  shall  I  not  preclude  his  fall  ? 
Begin  at  least  I  must  and  can. 
'Tis  thus  I  hear  my  farthest  call, 
To  realize  my  plan. ' ' 
The  stranger  saw  himself  unsighted, 
By  his  too-youthful  auditor, 
And  so  his  speech  anew  he  lighted 


LINCOLN    AND    JOHNNY    APPLE8EED.       335 

With  flashing  tale  and  metaphor, 

Would  even  turn  a  rhymed  line 

To  make  the  point  the  brighter  shine. 

But  when  he  wished  to  show  the  pith, 

He  would  re-build  an  olden  myth, 

Transfigure  it  with  newest  fact 

So  that  it  gleamed  the  very  act. 

Dreamily  Lincoln  comprehended, 

He  tried  to  girdle  in  his  brain 

The  thought  which  had  so  far  transcended 

The  little  world  of  gain  and  pain. 

Gravely  the  wanderer  looked  about, 

He  saw  the  youth  bedimmed  with  doubt 

And  deemed  this  was  the  time  to  try 

A  little  bit  of  his  theology : 

*  *  To  give  through  Christ  to  the  leper  faint 

Has  been  the  worthy  deed  of  Saint ; 

To  give  your  selfhood  with  your  gift, 

Is  even  a  still  higher  lift, 

Which  hoists  you  to  the  presence  of  the  Lord 

Who  breathes  you  now  his  very  word: 

For  you  no  longer  see  the  leper 

But  in  his  stead  the  universal  keeper. 

Yet  the  good  Lord,  just  to  be  good 

Needs  you,  when  he  is  rightly  understood, 

As  you  need  him  to  be  your  own, 

And  never  by  the  world  o  'erthrown. 

So  dawns  an  ever-loftier  living 

New-born  of  a  still  mightier  giving. 

Of  life  I  say  you  my  solution : 


336  CANTO    IX— LINCOLN'S   RETURN. 

' 

I  give  my  own,  myself  to  all, 
Both  as  the  master  and  the  thrall, 
To  build  the  institution." 

• 

Among  the  bushes  flees  and  disappears 
A  Redskin  driven  by  his  fears; 
Just   there    the    stranger    turned    the   boat 

ashore 

Saying:  "Our  journey  is  now  o'er, 
An  Indian  village  lies  behind  this  wood, 
Where  I  perchance  can  do  a  little  good, 
Keeping  its  people  from  this  strife 
Which  threatens  their  whole  race's  life. 
Thither  I  must  now  quickly  pass 
Leaving  my  boat  hid  in  this  grass. 
Yonder  your  path  you  will  espy ; 
0  friend,  to  you  I  feel  me  nigh, 
But  here  I  have  to  say  good-bye." 

They  parted.    Lincoln's  tread  was  slow, 
A  world  within  him  rose  to  overflow* 
Exalted  to  a  new-born  vision, 
Forecasting  what  may  be  his  mission, 
He  looked  around  in  his  afterglow 
He  could  not  tell  why  he  did  so. 
But  see  the  shape  just  over  there ! 
The  wanderer  floats  on  the  air, 

He  seems  to  shift  his  inner  self  outside 

< 

As  if  to  body  he  no  more  is  tied, 
His  head  has  changed  to  several  faces, 


LINCOLN    AND    JOHNNY    APPLE8EED.       337 

Each  gifted  with  a  tint  its  own 

In  which  lurks  character  ingrown — 

The  incarnation  of  the  races. 

And  yet  they  all  are  one  in  blood 

Coursing  its  way  within  that  form 

In  whose  one  heart  they  all  beat  warm 

With  universal  brotherhood. 

The  racial  difference  of  Nature's  plan 

Rounds  unified  within  that  man, 

Whose  members  turn  a  radiant  scroll 

Gleaming  humanity's  one  soul. 

So  Lincoln  glimpsed  his  deepest  creed 

As  he  that  vision  saw  unroll, 

And  he  forefelt  his  greatest  deed 

Viewing  transfigured  Johnny  Appleseed. 


Canto 


HOME  AGAIN. 
I. 

Time  tags  along  in  lazy  love, 

Sunning  himself  upon  the  prairie; 

While  turbaned  clouds  march  through  the 

dome  above 

With  serried  order  military, 
Holding  a  lofty  dress  parade 
In  fleecy  folds  of  white  arrayed 
Before  their  lordly  luminary; 
And  so  the  home-bound  soldier's  eyes 
Behold  his  regiment  up  in  the  skies. 
The  Summer  seethed  with  hottest  ray, 
As  lonely  Lincoln  went  his  way 
Which  on  the  greenery's  open  face 
Around  zigzagged  a  wrinkled  trace. 
Heaven's  kettle  filled  with  molten  beams, 

(338) 


BACK  TO   THE  OLD.  339 

The  Sun  upturned  and  poured  in  streams 

Which  fell  a  blazing  cataract, 

Unless  a  cloudlet  stayed  his  act 

A  little  moment  in  between, 

Patching  the  plain  with  shade  and  sheen. 

A  blacksmith's  shop  was  Lincoln's  soul 

The  future  forging  stroke  by  stroke, 

Full  both  of  sparkles  and  of  smoke, 

At  times  there  gleamed  to  him  his  goal, 

And  then  the  soot  would  make  him  choke. 

The  sweetest  milk  fair  Hope  unsought 

Would  pour  him  from  the  world  of  thought; 

But  soon  by  some  new  current  stirred 

The  stuff  would  turn  to  sourest  curd; 

Then    just    the    other   way   would    run   his 

dream, 
On  bonnyclabber  still  would  rise  the  cream. 

Edging  a  pretty  patch  of  wood 

From  home  not  many  miles  he  stood, 

Within  whose  shade  the  time  he  took 

To  give  a  backward  look; 

Relating  what  he  had  passed  through 

Unto  himself  in  pensive  view : 

"Only  three  months  have  I  been  gone, 

And  yet  the  minutes  have  been  drawn 

To  hours,  yea,  almost  to  days, 

So  full  of  haps  have  run  the  ways, 

Entangling  me  in  tortuous  maze; 

It  seems  as  long  as  all  my  former  years 


340  CANTO  X—HOME  AGAIN. 

As  to  its  close  it  nears; 

I  scarce  can  sleuth  myself  through  its  brief 

past, 

The  wheels  have  run  so  fast. 
My  acts  in  this  wee  Black  Hawk  war 
Resound  already  to  me  from  afar, 
They  speak  a  wordless  voice  of  presage, 
Which  tells  me  still  its  message, 
I  seem  in  small  to  pre-enact 
What  is  to  be  the  largest  fact, 
In  such  a  world  I  never  moved  before, 
So  full  of  weird  prophetic  lore, 
Its  small  events  of  petty  worth 
Foreshadow  some  gigantic  birth, 
I  breathe,  methinks,  a  pictured  air 
On  which  I  read  the  future  everywhere, 
This  miniature  of  Indian  strife 
Has  made  me  glimpse  my  entire  life, 
What  I  have  done,  I  yet  must  do, 
The  past  I  have  still  to  go  through, 
The  jailor  Time  handcuffs  not  me 
I  slip  his  fetters  to  futurity. 
But  stop,  my  soul,  this  mood  fictitious, 
I  know  me  somewhat  superstitious. " 

So  Lincoln  stopped  presentiment 
Though  woven  in  his  every  bent, 
The  demon  Care  he  would  outfence 
By  falling  back  on  common  sense, 
Or  jetting  forth  a  little  eloquence, 


BACK  TO  THE  OLD.  341 

Which  might  his  melancholy  buffet, 

If  just  by  blowing  he  could  puff  it; 

He  wandered  off  in  various  vein, 

But  to  himself  came  back  again : 

"That  fugitive  slave  mother, 

Whom  I  would  not  permit  to  be  sent  back, 

Benights  my  soul  with  brooding  bother; 

I  have  no  respite  from  attack 

When  two  laws  start  to  fight  each  other; 

The  first  compels  me  from  within 

And  makes  obedience  a  sin, 

The  second  bids  me  from  without, 

And  will  not  suffer  me  to  doubt. 

Although  I  freed  the  fleeing  slave, 

Myself  I  did  not  save. 

And  then  this  case  of  Indian  Loo 

With  conflict  ran  me  through  and  through; 

I  could  not  bear  to  see  him  wronged 

By  my  own  people  round  him  thronged; 

Though  on  the  march  to  fight  his  race 

The  human  I  would  not  efface. 

But  that  which  came  to  me  like  Fate 
Was  when  I  heard  the  hot  debate 
That  day  between  the  valiant  two 
Young  army  officers  in  blue. 
They  seemed  to  split  the  very  nation 
Along  the  lines  of  their  argumentation; 
In  them  the  Union  fell  divided 
And  fighting  with  itself  two-sided; 


342  CANTO  X—HOME  AGAIN. 

That  picture  haunts  me  everywhere, 

I  hear  the  hurtle  in  the  air, 

And  see  the  bluecoats  battling  there — 

Millions  have  sprung  out  of  those  two, 

Somehow  I  seem  the  center  of  ado, 

And  can't  escape  the  spectral  hullabaloo." 

Then  Lincoln  cast  ahead  his  look 

And  sought  his  pace  to  hurry, 

A.S  if  to  flee  from  persecuting  worry 

While  gentler  lines  his  semblance  took: 

"But  this  is  my  chief  wonderment, 

At  the  right  moment  word  is  sent; 

There  speaks  me  from  beyond  somewhence 

A  messenger  of  Providence, 

He  drops  down  at  the  turn  of  danger 

As  if  he  were  the  universe's  ranger, 

Planting  upon  his  path  his  seeds 

And  yet  to  me  much  greater  are  his  deeds — 

Himself  has  interwoven  all  my  way 

From  the  first  day." 

As  Lincoln  lisped  the  blessed  word, 

The  rustle  of  his  sword  he  heard, 

Sword  of  the  valiant  Rutledges, 

Which  he  had  kept  through  all  his  stress 

Merrily  dangling  at  his  side, 

And  gleaming  there  ancestral  pride ; 

It  seemed  to  tune  a  gentle  clang, 

Soft-voiced  as  if  a  maiden  sang 

Along  his  path  unto  his  heart 

Her  loving  whisper  to  impart. 


BACK  TO  THE  OLD.  343 

His  hand  reached  for  that  sword  of  Rut- 

ledges 

And  gave  to  it  a  soft  caress 
Which  stirred  the  brightest  memory 
Of  all  his  days  that  had  gone  by. 
But  a  still  smaller  voice  he  heard 
Tongned    somehow    from    that    speechless 

sword, 
With  which  his  heaving  breast  could  hardly 

cope — 
It  was  the  voice  of  hope. 

New  Salem  was  not  far  away 
He  dreamed  another  festal  day, 
Like  that  on  which  he  had  set  out 
To  run  his  martial  roundabout 
Just  back  to  where  he  had  begun — 
So  would  the  circling  deed  be  done. 
But  in  returning  to  its  primal  root 
The  rounded  season  brings  new  fruit; 
The  Eutledge  blade  he  would  restore, 
Receiving  for  it  something  more. 
Upborne  he  reveries  the  past 
And  paints  the  future  coming  fast 
With  all  its  rainbows  arching  over, 
Sunclad  his  soul  with  hope  of  lover. 
Then  Lincoln  spake  unto  his  brand, 
As  he  in  turn  its  trappings  scanned; 
He  even  drew  the  gleaming  blade, 
Whereat  this  little  speech  he  made : 


344  CANTO  X—HOME  AGAIN. 

"Glad  that  I  used  thee  not — 
Not  once  upon  a  human  being — 
It  would  have  left  on  me  a  blot 
To  stain  thee  in  my  seeing; 
With  thee  is  joined  my  very  heart 
Coupled  in  a  common  joy  or  smart. 
When  I  thy  graceful  form  unsheathe 
A  gentle  tone  it  seems  to  breathe, 
Thy  tongue  tells  not  to  me  of  war, 
But  of  some  happier  time  by  far. 
Though  here  below,  it  chimes  above 
And  lisps  to  me  the  note  of  love." 
That  final  word  when  he  outspake, 
He  gave  a  leap  and  was  awake 
Out  of  his  panoramic  dreamery, 
And  now  again  the  world  could  see 
Freed  of  all  freaky  fantasy. 

Behold,  it  is  familiar  ground, 

He  enters  it  right  at  a  bound, 

Upon  Sand  Ridge  he  is  now  walking, 

And  finds  himself  to  Uncle  Jimmy  talking. 

Uncle  Jimmy  Short — 'twas  he 

Who  gave  to  Lincoln  that  first  steed, 

A  mettled  charger  of  Kentucky  breed, 

A  worthy  mount  to  lead 

His  horsed  company. 

Lincoln  let  fall  in  dole  his  head 

As  he  to  Uncle  Jimmy  said: 

"You  see  me  come  without  your  horse, 


BACK  TO  THE  OLD.  345 

Though  I  myself  be  none  the  worse ; 

Bay  Speedwell  always  did  his  duty 

And  did  it  too  with  dashing  beauty, 

He  drew  the  eye  and  won  each  heart 

The  moment  he  would  make  a  start. 

He  to  his  rider  was  a  glory 

And  equalled  any  steed  of  story; 

And  so  that  night  it  came  about, 

Just  after  we  were  mustered  out, 

Somebody  stole  him  from  my  sleep, 

That  loss  still  makes  me  weep." 

Kind  Jimmy  comforted  sad  Abe 

Who  oozed  in  tears  just  like  a  babe, 

Whereat  the  hearty  farmer  spake : 

"I  have  another  steed  which  you  can  take 

And  to  New  Salem  ride  today, 

Returning  as  you  went  away, 

Well  mounted  like  a  cavalier, 

Before  the  people  to  appear. 

For  all  the  town  is  turning  out 

To  welcome  you  in  one  great  shout 

The  coming  hero  of  the  war, 

Of  soldiering  Sangamon  the  star. 

I  know  there  will  be  an  ovation 

As  if  we  were  the  entire  nation, 

Flocked  to  receive  the  President 

With  artillery's  loud  compliment; 

I  too  must  rally  with  that  throng, 

With  Captain  Lincoln  ride  along, 

And  in  his  company  shall  muster 

Thus  I  may  shine  a  little  from  his  lustre." 


. 

346  CANTO  X—HOME  AGAIN. 

So  Uncle  Jimmy  cheered  the  youth 

With  the  exaggerated  truth, 

He  knew  it  was  without  a  doubt 

That  all  New  Salem  would  march  out 

Its  Captain  Abraham  to  greet, 

Would   then   escort   him   down    the    village 

street 

To  overlook  idyllic  Sangamon, 
The  nymph  he  often  thought  upon 
The  rushing  days  he  had  been  gone. 
The  trotters  twain  sped  on  the  way, 
And  soon  the  miles  behind  them  lay; 
Yonder  they  come — a  boisterous  crowd 
Ee-echoes  its  own  huzzahs  loud, 
It  was  the  spot,  it  was  the  shout 
Which  Lincoln  left  when  he  set  out. 
Now  three  months  gone  or  more, 
All  seemed  quite  as  it  was  before, 
E'en  to  the  Hickory  Hermitage 
Studded  with  shag-bark  trees  of  every  age. 
Lincoln  around  glanced  his  salute, 
While  rattling  guns  began  to  shoot 
Their  noisy  words  upon  the  air 
Well  punctuated  everywhere 
With  many  a  piping  boyish  toot; 
And  then  a  cannon  boomed  its  greeting 
Of  wavy  sounds  far  down  the  vale  retreating, 
Amid  the  clouds  up  in  the  sky 
Eeverberations  high  went  rolling  by. 


BACK  TO  THE  OLD.  347 

Many  of  Captain  Lincoln's  company 
Had  come  their  chief  again  to  see; 
They  had  been  mustered  out  before, 
A  month  it  was  and  even  more, 
So  that  they  were  already  back — 
Treading  at  home  the  beaten  track. 
But  Lincoln's  duty  would  not  let  him  quit. 
Than  all  the  rest  he  showed  more  grit, 
As  private  afterwards  he  twice  enlisted 
And  in  his  troublous  task  persisted — 
Methinks  it  was  no  wonder  then — 
"You  are  the  best  of  all  us  men" 
The  soldiers  shouted  in  a  chorus : 
"Come  take  your  place  before  us." 

Meanwhile  the  Captain  looked  around 

To  spy  whatever  might  be  found, 

He  oped  his  eyesight's  keenest  sense 

Scanning  each  corner  of  the  fence, 

When  at  his  side  he  felt  a  jog, 

'Twas  Mentor  Graham,  the  pedagogue, 

Beady  a  little  speech  to  make 

All  for  the  hero's  sake. 

But  he,  the  hero,  had  that  moment  seen 

The  only  one,  the  heroine — 

Schoolmaster  had  to  stand  aside, 

And  some  more  talky  time  abide, 

For  Lincoln  reined  his  steed  in  sudden  press 

Toward  where  stood  both  the  Rutledges — 

The  father  and  the  daughter  too — 


348  CANTO  X—HOME  AGAIN. 

That  was  just  what  he  had  to  do. 
The  flashing  falchion  out  he  drew, 
And  waved  it  round  above  his  head 
Until  it  seemed  to  cut  the  air  in  two: 
A  maiden  smiled  upon  the  view, 
Whereat  James  Rutledge  said : 
"Put  up  your  sword,  my  valorous  knight, 
Without  reproach,  without  affright; 
Now  let  us  march  to  the  public  square 
And    hold    our    tournament    of    speeching 
there." 

So  Lincoln  sheathed  again  his  blade 

And  Uncle  Jimmy  with  him  stayed, 

The  horsemen  twain  turned  up  the  road, 

Before  them  first  the  fifer  strode — 

It  was  the  same  old  Thomas  Cunes 

Playing  the  same  old  fifing  tunes 

Which  he  had  fifed  for  forty  dozen  moons, 

A  single  thing  he  had  bran-new, 

It  was  the  wooden  pipe  he  whistled  through, 

That  former  one,  in  his  great  zeal, 

He  struck  against  a  wagon  wheel, 

Gesturing  with  it  as  he  spoke, 

He  thought  to  deal  Black  Hawk  a  stroke; 

But  the  old  mouthpiece  rolled  away, 

Escaped  destruction  on  that  day; 

Through  this  lead  spout  he  drives  his  breath 

Pumping  as  if  for  life  and  death; 

The  big  drum  bellowing  from  its  blows, 


THE  NEW  VOCATION.  349 

The  snare-drum  snarling  through  the  nose, 
Are  rhyming  in  a  roaring  rune 
Timed  to  the  fifer's  shrilly  tune. 
Then  through  New  Salem 's  single  thorough- 
fare, 

All  in  procession  to  the  Public  Square, 
The  townsmen  march  with  jibe  and  jam 
Faming  their  hero  Abraham; 
It  was  a  pompous  celebration 
As  if  they  were  just  all  creation. 
They  halt  before  the  Eutledge  house, 
With  cheers  the  sleepy  bluffs  arouse, 
Which  talk  with  many  an  echo  back 
Mocking  New  Salem 's  noisy  pack. 

II. 

But  see!  mounted  again  upon  a  cart 
Schoolmaster  Mentor  has  made  a  start, 
Bids  silence  to  that  tonguey  press 
And  then  the  Captain  doth  address : 
"I  gave  you  here  a  piece  of  work, 
Appointing  you  election  clerk; 
I  asked  if  you  could  write 
You  said  you  could  indite 
Some  rabbit  tracks  upon  a  paper  sheet 
And  like  a  rabbit  make  them  fleet. 
And  so  you  wrote  me  all  that  day; 
The  leisure  you  would  fill  with  play, 
Telling  the  people  many  a  story — 
That  seemed  to  be  your  native  territory; 


350  CANTO  X—HOME  AGAIN. 

Whatever  it  might  be  about 

The  nub  was  certain  to  pop  out. 

'Twas  then  I  read  your  rising  star 

To  be  the  people's  orator; 

Look !  here  again  the  flag  I  wave 

Which  once  I  to  your  soldiers  gave, 

Not  now  its  folds  flaunt  forth  defiant, 

But  furled  its  lies  a  sleeping  giant, 

Eeady  to  wake  at  country's  call, 

Whatever  may  befall; 

Aye,  twinkling  through  this  Black  Hawk  War 

Another  destiny  peeps  from  afar. 

But  next  the  statesman's  world  you  are  to 

enter, 

Of  which  you  will  become  the  center ; 
When  strikes  the  moment  critical, 
You  rise  o  'er  all  the  man  political ; 
Now  we  shall  start  this  bud  of  Nature 
And  send  you  to  the  Legislature." 
The  crowd  without  dissenting  stammer 
Sent  cloudward  up  a  mighty  clamor ; 
Approving  what  the  speaker  spoke, 
They  clapped  their  heavy  hands  in  hardy 

stroke. 

The  soldier  has  become  the  candidate, 
And  turns  his  way  from  war  to  state; 
He  did  not  like  the  spirit  military, 
To  his  whole  character  it  ran  contrary, 
E'en  though  he  thought  he  had  to  fight, 
And  could  again  perchance  be  forced  to  war 


THE  NEW  VOCATION.  351 

To  prop  with  might  the  higher  right, 
That  uneclipsed  shine  still  its  star. 

Dimly  he  now  forefelt  the  goal 

Toward  which  his  life  must  hence  unroll; 

Again  rose  up  that  fleeing  slave 

Whom  he  in  agony  must  save ; 

To  that  one  act  whate'er  he  may  intend, 

His  future  pathway  seems  to  bend; 

Though  on  the  outside  globe  he  start 

His  thought  would  thither  line  as  to  its  heart. 

Such  were  the  throbbings  in  his  breast, 

He  felt  but  little  inner  rest ; 

And  still  the  youth  could  hardly  say 

The  deepest  thing  that  in  him  lay; 

That  image  might  be  an  illusion 

Dancing  amid  his  brain's  confusion. 

But  Lincoln  had  to  do  some  speaking, 

Though  not  at  present  of  his  seeking ; 

So  with  one  will-bound  look  he  rallied, 

And  forth  to  words  he  boldly  sallied: 

"What  I  have  seen  this  little  spell 

Would  take  me  a  long  while  to  tell; 

Only  a  quarter  of  a  year 

Has  circled  since  I  left  you  here, 

Yet  I  have  lived  an  entire  life 

Me  seems,  with  all  its  stress  and  strife; 

The  total  future  flowed  through  it 

Though  of  the  present  but  a  little  bit; 

The  dot  of  time  indeed  was  small 


052  CANTO  X—HOME  AGAIN. 

Yet  mirrored  to  me  All-in- All, 

Should  I  hold  out  a  thousand  ages 

Their  deeds  were  written  on  these  few  days' 

pages, 

In  mind  I  read  that  lightning  script 
But  all  its  words  could  not  be  lipped 
Though  I  might  speak 
This  entire  week. 

And  still  there  is  one  scene  I  heard 
Of  which  I  might  re-say  the  word; 
It  was  a  cleaving  fierce  debate 
Preluding  strains  of  war's  estate 
Between  the  North  and  South; 
Though  now  the  fight  be  only  of  the  mouth, 
I  fear  it  will  not  soon  abate. 
Two  young  lieutenants  had  the  wordy  battle 
In  which  I  heard  the  muskets  rattle 
From  the  far-off  upbearing  years, 
With  sorrow  bursting  into  tears. 
But  now  the  sword  I  shall  unbuckle, 
Glad  to  be  quit  of  fight ; 
Still  I  to  peace  shall  never  truckle 
Or  buy  it  with  the  loss  of  right. 
My  heart  swings  in  one  strong  vibration 
Unto  the  oneness  of  the  Nation, 
Whose  sections  by  our  fathers  mated 
Cannot  again  be  separated; 
Within  my  deepest  soul  I  bring 
This  thought  back  from  my  soldiering: 
The  Union  of  the  States  is  King." 


THE  NEW  VOCATION.  353 

Whereat  again  he  bared  the  blade 

A  South-east  gesture  too  he  made; 

He  heard  again  the  people's  cry, 

Shouting  to  him  like  destiny: 

"Use  it  on  him  if  there  is  need, 

We'll  march  along  in  God's  speed." 

But  with  that  one  big  gash  upon  the  air, 

He  scabbarded  his  sword  in  loving  care, 

A  look  divine  of  sympathy 

He  cast  that  selfsame  way 

Where  he  had  slashed  through  earth  and  sky 

Summoning  all  his  skill  to  slay, 

As  if  the  wound  he  made  he  sought  to  heal, 

While  deeply  his  own  blade  he  seemed  to  feel, 

His  cut  came  back  into  his  heart  again, 

He  gave  the  blow,  but  felt  the  more  the  pain. 

He  took  the  trappings  of  the  sword 

Which  was  now  in  its  scabbard  stored 

And  held  it  forth  unto  the  crowd 

While  to  himself  he  spake  out  loud : 

"I  never  drew  a  drop  of  blood 

With  this  keen  weapon's  furious  slash, 

Though  I  at  times  quite  ready  stood 

In  the  last  need  to  give  a  gash. 

I  pulled  it  once  in  crisis  grave, 

An  Indian  not  to  slay  but  save, 

Although  I  went  to  fight  against  his  kin 

My  first  act  was  to  aid  a  coppered  skin; 

And  then  I  helped  with  it  a  fleeing  slave 

To  keep  that  liberty 

23 


354  CANTO  X—HOME  AGAIN. 

Which  you  and  I  possess  as  free — 
Wherein  I  traced  this  easy  sequel, 
That  all  men  are  born  equal. 
That  weirdly  winning  word 
I  always  read  upon  this  sword, 
Until  it  came  to  be  my  creed 
Which  had  to  rise  into  my  deed. ' ' 

The  crowd  was  silent  at  this  speech, 
They  hardly  felt  its  vast  outreach, 
No  murmuring  of  praise  or  blame, 
Perchance  a  balancing  between  the  same, 
A  something  seemed  what  is  to  be 
Wrapped  in  the  robe  of  far  futurity. 
Just  then  Ann  Rutledge,  fairest  of  the  land, 
Trips  up  with  roses  nodding  in  her  hand, 
And  on  his  blouse  she  pins  their  blushes, 
While    in    her    cheeks    responsive    rise    the 

flushes ; 

The  maid  herself,  the  soulful  flower, 
Has  reached  her  richest  tint  that  hour; 
In  every  eye  her  bloom  supreme 
Eayed  out  heart's  tenderness  agleam; 
The  multitude,  as  from  above, 
Were  melted  to  the  thrill  of  love, 
And  as  one  common  soul  they  prayed 
At  the  divine  appearance  of  the  maid, 
As  if  a  Goddess  she  had  just  come  down 
Revealing  Heaven's  beauty  to  the  town. 
But  in  one  look  was  Lincoln  recognized 
More  than  all   other  praise    'twas  by  him 

prized ; 


THE  NEW  VOCATION.  355 

Taller  he  seemed,  on  high  uprisen, 
The  world  no  longer  was  his  prison, 
In  dreams  a  while  he  stood  distraught, 
But  soon  again  himself  upcaught, 
And  to  the  maid  the  sword  he  raught. 
She  touched  it  with  a  pleasant  smile, 
Her  father  stepped  up  to  the  front  meanwhile 
And  stately  there  to  Lincoln  spake 
Before  that  little  human  lake 
Of  faces  rippling  from  the  pair 
As  the  one  center  there. 

"This  sword  ancestral  with  new  story 
I  shall  take  back  in  its  old  glory; 
A  fresher  lustre  now  it  shows, 
And  brighter  in  its  honor  grows ; 
Though  hang  it  on  its  peg  I  must 
Methinks  it  was  not  made  to  rust, 
Time  will  not  let  it  wear  a  stain, 
For  I  shall  have  to  take  it  down  again; 
If  any  other  foe  appear, 
Lincoln,  you  shall  find  it  here, 
Sword  of  the  knightly  Eutledges, 
Which  has  the  priestly  power  to  bless 
Its  wearer  in  all  strife  and  stress ; 
And  as  I  take  it  in  my  hand 
It  gleams  the  oneness  of  our  land, 
And  glowers  wrath  at  separation 
Which  darkly  overhangs  our  nation; 
'Twill  never  let  that  be  the  fact 


356  CANTO  X—HOME  AQAIN. 

With  Lincoln  wielding  it  in  act. 
Thus  now  I  emphasize  my  word: 
My  daughter  here  shall  thee  engird 
Again  with  this  same  flashing  brand 
Which  hews  its  way  in  valor's  hand." 
Ann  Eutledge  gave  a  blooming  smile, 
Yet  stood  and  thought  a  little  while, 
As  if  she  peered  across  the  future's  gap, 
And  glimpsed  in  hope  some  far-off  hap 
Which  Lincoln  too  somehow  involved — 
The  riddle  lay  within  her  soul  unsolved. 

But  Lincoln  wore  a  sober  look, 
Solemn  the  train  of  speech  he  took: 
"Peace,  peace!  I  lip  the  word  in  love, 
Most  precious  present  from  above; 
I  hope  of  God  that  war  be  not, 
Methinks  there  is  but  one  worse  lot — 
That  is,  to  let  the  nation 
Die  under  doom  of  peaceful  separation. 
I  shall  enlist  again,  so  come  the  need; 
My  people,  are  you  all  agreed? 
My  soldiers,  daring  battle 's  harms 
Will  you  with  me  re-shoulder  arms ! 
To  march  perchance  the  other  way — 
Which  God  forbid,  I  pray." 
Whereat  uprose  a  solid  shout, 
"You,  leader,  Lincoln,  march  us  out." 
Then  Lincoln  fixed  afar  his  eyes 
As  if  he  would  soliloquize: 


THE  NEW  VOCATION.  357 

''The  Union  is  our  Holy  Mother, 

And  Illinois  her  son, 

Than  her  we  recognize  none  other, 

Though  we  be  only  one, 

Of  her  increasing  family 

With  more  than  royal  pedigree. 

Not  all  the  States  such  high  descent  can  show 

But  for  their  birth-line  elsewhere  go, 

Even  across  the  sea 

Roots  their  colonial  tree. 

This  Mother,  too,  us  free  has  borne 

Our  soil  will  chain  no  slave  forlorn; 

I  would  that  each  State  thus  might  be — 

That  day  I  hope  I  yet  may  see." 

Whereat  a  silence  fell  upon  the  crowd, 
They  all  were  set  to  thinking  not  aloud, 
And  could  not  well  make  up  their  mind, 
And  so  they  had  to  lag  behind 
Their  speaker  in  his  lofty  mood, 
Who  hazily  before  them  stood. 
It  was  a  dreamy  interval 
Which  stilled  the  talking  of  them  all, 
A  node  of  strange  bewilderment, 
Each  seemed  upon  himself  inbent, 
That  wordlessness  was  a  surprise; 
What  could  those  tongues  so  paralyze? 
Lincoln  dreamed  trouble  out  of  his  eyes, 
The  heart  must  find  some  utterance, 
It  cannot  bide  in  speechless  trance, 


358  CANTO  X—HOME  AGAIN. 

Then  just  in  time  the  man  appears, 

Jack  Kelso,  who  can  tap  the  unshed  tears. 

He  seems  himself  to  throb  the  woe, 

And  so  he  starts  the  tale  of  Borneo. 

The  tragic  lot  of  Juliet, 

Who  paid  of  too  much  love  the  debt 

With  her  own  life  laid  in  the  tomb, 

Turned  every  heart  to  sob  and  gloom, 

Making  them  feel  fair  maiden  Ann 

Caught  in  the  net  of  fateful  plan, 

For  she  was  their  first  favorite 

Who  stood  just  now  within  their  sight. 

But  Lincoln  more  than  all  forefelt 

The  stroke  of  destiny  here  dealt 

Upon  a  hopeful  loving  pair; 

One  sigh  escaped  him  like  despair, 

As  if  it  came  just  from  the  fact 

Which  he  saw  scythed  Time  enact 

Upon  the  fairest  of  the  fair. 

Again  he  grasped  the  weapon  by  the  belt, 

With  it  he  might  not  yet  be  through — 

Lincoln  perchance  is  fated  too. 

A  while  his  very  heart  did  melt, 

And  pulse  its  way  out  of  his  eyes 

At  love's  untoward  destinies, 

So  deeply  Kelso  him  upstirred 

By  Shakespeare's  ever-throbbing  word. 

But.  there  the  bright  Ann  Rutledge  stands 
Before  him  reaching  both  her  hands, 


THE  NEW  VOCATION.  359 

As  if  to  help  him  out  the  cloud 

Which  seems  him  bodeful  to  enshroud, 

And  takes  the  sword  from  Lincoln  now 

Who  faithful  had  fulfilled  his  vow, 

Uttered  upon  that  very  spot, 

To  bear  the  blade  without  a  blot. 

His  melancholy  took  to  flight, 

And  all  the  dragons  of  his  spirit's  night, 

Were  routed  by  the  inner  sun 

Which  with  the  maiden  rose  and  shone. 

Thus  Lincoln  was  to  hope  restored 

When  out  his  hand  he  gave  the  sword, 

Sword  of  the  loyal  Rutledges 

Yet  worn  with  knightly  gentleness, 

Which  spake  a  line  of  high  degree 

Flashing  the  words:  "Man  is  born  free." 

The  father  also  nearby  stood, 

James  Rutledge,  worthy  of  his  blood, 

But  worthier  in  his  own  right 

Of  character  and  honor  bright ; 

The  people's  word  gave  him  a  crown 

As  the  first  man  of  all  the  town; 

The  cavalier  aloft  did  tower 

Beside  him  bloomed  the  rarest  flower, 

He  looked  to  Lincoln  high  and  spoke, 

In  presence  of  the  cheering  folk : 

"Son  of  promise,  you  I  nominate 

Here  as  our  legislative  candidate, 

Our  choice  you  are  the  law  to  make, 

In  that  I  see  your  future  stake, 


360  CANTO  X—HOME  AGAIN. 

The  larger  time  is  coming  on — 

A  mightier  stream  than  Sangamon 

Which  yonder  now  can  barely  crawl 

Through  shallow  pools  and  grasses  tall, 

A  little  harmless  thing, 

Much  dwindled  since  the  floods  of  spring, 

When  you  obeyed  your  country's  call; 

Then  it  appeared  as  if  forever 

It  might  roll  on  a  full-grown  river, 

Able  upon  its  face  to  float 

The  heavy-burdened  steam-winged  boat. 

Not  for  New  Salem 's  likes  alone 

With  its  dear  navigable  Sangamon, 

But  for  the  weal  of  the  entire  State 

It  must  be  yours  to  legislate; 

Then  you  will  mount  to  a  still  higher  station, 

From  State  rise  up  to  the  whole  Nation. " 

Whereat  they  cheered  the  candidate 
With  an  all-throated  tumbling  yell, 
Whose  ups  and  downs  surged  for  a  spell ; 
Lincoln  has  passed  to  his  new  vocation, 
Whose  star  will  never  quit  his  sight 
Until  his  eye  shuts  into  his  last  night; 
But  now  he  hails  the  great  release 
To  turn  away  from  war  to  peace; 
Though  he  forefeel  this  may  not  be  the  last- 
Enough  !  the  Black  Hawk  War  is  past. 
So  Lincoln  has  his  campaign  rounded, 
Some  depths  of  living  he  has  sounded; 


THE'  NEW  VOCATION. 


And  now  again  has  reached  the  place 

From  which  he  started  on  his  race, 

Still  the  aspiring  candidate 

For  his  dear  folk  to  legislate. 

Another  yet,  though  voiceless,  goal 

Looms  up  within  him  and  above  — 

A  power  he  cannot  control- 

He  is,  too,  candidate  for  love. 

A  circle  going  forth  and  coming  back, 

The  tale  has  followed  out  his  journey's  track; 

But  now  the  end  of  this  one  inning 

Has  overlapped  a  new  beginning, 

Whereof  to  tell  is  not  of  here 

But  cycles  in  another  sphere. 


362  HISTORIC  INTIMATIONS. 


intimations. 


CANTO  I— On  April  21st,  1832,  sixty-eight 
men  volunteered  to  serve  the  State  of  Illi- 
nois at  Eichland,  Sangamon  County,  and  in 
the  election  which  followed  Lincoln  was  cho- 
sen Captain,  who  had  walked  over  from  New 
Salem  to  the  place  of  rendezvous.  This  was 
in  response  to  the  call  of  Governor  Eeynolds 
for  troops  against  the  invasion  of  Black 
Hawk. 

Says  Stevens  (The  Black  Hawk  War,  p. 
278) :  "One  William  Kirkpatrick  aspired  to 
the  same  position.  He  was  pretentious,  as- 
sumed a  prominence  in  the  neighborhood — 
and  when  he  announced  a  desire  for  the  office 
he  expected  to  get  it.  The  two  candidates 
were  placed  a  short  distance  away,  and  the 
men  were  requested  to  fall  in  behind  the  man 
they  preferred  for  their  Captain.  Lincoln 
was  overwhelmingly  and  hilariously  elected." 

Says  Miss  Tarbell  (Life  of  Lincoln,  Vol.  I., 
p.  75) :  "One  of  the  odd  jobs  which  Lincoln 
had  taken  since  coming  into  Illinois,  was 
working  in  a  saw-mill  for  a  man  named  Kirk- 
patrick" (to  which  fact  a  story  is  appended). 


HISTORIC  INTIMATIONS. 


The  muster-roll  of  the  company  in  Lin- 
coln's hand-writing  is  still  in  existence.  A 
fac-simile  is  given  in  Steven's  work  before 
mentioned.  No.  20  is  the  name  William  Kirk- 
patrick,  with  the  inserted  gloss:  "Promoted 
from  the  ranks  April  30th." 

From  Lincoln's  first  brief  sketch  of  his  life 
(written  in  1859):  "Then  came  the  Black 
Hawk  War,  and  I  was  elected  Captain  of 
volunteers — a  success  which  gave  me  more 
pleasure  than  any  I  have  had  since." 

From  a  second  and  later  account  (written 
by  him  in  1860) :  "Abraham  joined  a  volun- 
teer company  and  to  his  own  surprise  was 
elected  Captain  of  it.  He  says  he  has  not 
since  had  any  success  in  life  which  gave  him 
so  much  satisfaction.  He  went  to  the  cam- 
paign, served  near  three  months,  met  the 
ordinary  hardships  of  such  an  expedition, 
but  was  in  no  battle  (Works  of  Lincoln,  by 
Nicolay  &  Hay). 

"Lincoln's  paternal  grandfather,  also 
called  Abraham  Lincoln,  the  pioneer  from 
Virginia,  met  his  death  within  two  years  after 
his  settlement  in  Kentucky  at  the  hands  of 
the  Indians — not  in  battle  but  by  stealth  when 
he  was  laboring  to  open  a  farm  in  the  forest" 
(From  Herndon  &  Weik's  Lincoln,  p.  6). 

Herndon  says:  "I  have  often  heard  the 
President  describe  the  tragedy  as  he  had  in- 


364  HISTORIC  INTIMATIONS. 

herited  the  story  from  his  father,  Thomas 
Lincoln,  whose  brother,  Mordecai,  took  delib- 
erate aim  at  a  silver  crescent  which  hung  sus- 
pended from  the  Indian's  breast  and  brought 
him  to  the  ground.  The  tragic  death  of  his 
father  filled  Mordecai  with  an  intense  hatred 
of  the  Indians,  a  feeling  from  which  he  never 
recovered.  It  was  ever  with  him  like  an 
avenging  spirit.  Thomas  Lincoln  retained  a 
vivid  recollection  of  his  father's  death,  which 
he  was  fond  of  relating  to  his  children,  among 
whom  was,  of  course,  young  Abraham." 

CANTO  II — Black  Hawk  left  an  autobiog- 
raphy, the  only  Indian  one,  it  is  said.  It 
was  dictated  in  1833  to  Antoine  Le  Claire,  a 
half-breed  interpreter  who  could  not  write. 
The  amanuensis  was  a  Mr.  Patterson,  who 
gave  to  it  its  style  and  who  printed  it. 

Black  Hawk  was  born  in  1767  at  Saukenuk, 
the  Sauk  village  on  the  Eock  Eiver,  not  far 
from  the  latter 's  confluence  with  the  Missis- 
sippi. He  was  not  the  Chief  of  Sauks  and 
Foxes,  but  the  leader  of  the  British  band, 
those  Indians  of  his  nation  who  favored  the 
British  against  the  Americans.  His  success- 
ful rival  for  chieftainship  was  Keokuk,  quite 
his  counterpart  in  character. 

Opinions  about  the  ability  of  Black  Hawk 
are  diverse.  He  has  been  often  regarded  as 
one  of  the  great  historic  Indians,  and  put  in 


HISTORIC  INTIMATIONS.  355 

company  with  Philip,  Pontiac,  Tecumseh. 
Says  one  of  his  historians:  "He  evinced  no 
particular  talents  in  any  of  his  plans,  nor  did 
he  exhibit  extraordinary  skill  in  their  accom- 
plishment." He  was  a  daring  fighter  but  no 
great  organizer  of  his  race. 

White  Cloud  was  the  Prophet,  a  Winne- 
bago,  whose  visions  are  said  to  have  had  their 
part  in  stirring  up  Black  Hawk  to  the  war. 
His  village  was  known  as  Prophetstown  and 
was  burned  by  the  volunteers. 

CANTO  III — The  town  of  New  Salem,  the 
scene  of  Lincoln's  early  activity,  has  van- 
ished. It  was  situated  on  a  bluff  of  the  San- 
gamon  river  which  was  then  regarded  as 
navigable.  The  place  was  founded  in  1829 
by  James  Kutledge  and  John  Cameron,  and 
lasted  about  ten  years.  At  present  it  is  a 
cow  pasture. 

Eutledge  was  born  in  South  Carolina  and 
belonged  to  the  famous  family  of  that  name. 
He  first  migrated  to  Kentucky  and  thence  to 
Illinois.  Says  Herndon:  "I  knew  him  as 
early  as  1833,  and  have  often  shared  the  hos- 
pitality of  his  home.  He  was  a  man  of  no 
little  force  of  character ;  those  who  knew  him 
best,  loved  him  the  most.  Ann,  his  third 
child,  was  a  beautiful  girl,  and  by  her  win- 
ning ways  attached  people  to  her  so  firmly 
that  she  soon  became  the  most  popular  young 


366  HISTORIC  INTIMATIONS. 

lady  of  the  village"  (Herndon  and  Weick's 
Lincoln,  p.  120). 

Mentor  Graham,  the  village  schoolmaster 
of  New  Salem,  was  a  character  who  in  a  num- 
ber of  ways  plays  into  the  early  life  of  Lin- 
coln. Some  account  of  him  may  be  found  in 
the  Lincoln  Biographies. 

Uncle  Jimmy  Short  of  Sand  Eidge  was  the 
generous  farmer  who  redeemed  Lincoln 's 
horse  and  surveying  instruments  when  they 
were  sold  for  debt  (see  Miss  Tarbell's  Lin- 
coln, p.  105). 

Sallie  Bush  Lincoln,  the  stepmother,  had 
probably  more  to  do  in  building  the  character 
of  Abraham  Lincoln  than  any  other  human 
being.  The  following  citation  indicating  her 
sympathetic  and  premonitory  nature  we  owe 
to  Herndon :  "I  did  not  want  Abe  to  run  for 
President  and  did  not  want  to  see  him  elected. 
I  was  afraid  that  something  would  happen  to 
him.  And  when  he  came  down  to  see  me 
after  he  was  elected  President,  I  still  felt  and 
my  heart  told  me  that  something  would  befall 
him,  and  that  I  should  never  see  him  again. ' ' 

Jack  Kelso:  "In  New  Salem  was  one  of 
those  curious  individuals  sometimes  found  in 
frontier  settlements,  half  poet,  half  loafer,  in- 
capable of  earning  a  living  in  any  steady  em- 
ployment, yet  familiar  with  #ood  literature 
and  capable  of  enjoying  it — Jack  Kelso.  He 


HISTORIC  INTIMATIONS.  357 

repeated  Shakespeare  and  Burns  incessantly 
over  the  odd  jobs  he  undertook,  or  as  he 
idled  by  the  streams — for  he  was  a  famous 
fisherman — and  Lincoln  soon  became  his  con- 
stant companion"  (Miss  Tarbell's  Lincoln  I., 
p.  93). 

CANTO  IV — There  is  a  general  agreement 
concerning  the  talents  and  character  of  Keo- 
kuk,  "the  watchful  Fox."  He  was  a  Sauk, 
born  about  1780,  the  life-long  rival  of  Black 
Hawk  for  the  headship  of  their  common  na- 
tion. 

Says  Drake's  Life  of  Black  Hawk  (7th  edi- 
tion, 1849) :  "The  eloquence  of  Keokuk  and 
his  sagacity  in  the  civil  affairs  of  his  nation 
are,  like  his  military  talents,  of  a  high  order. 
In  point  of  intellect,  integrity  of  character, 
and  the  capacity  for  governing  others,  he  is 
supposed  to  have  no  superior  among  the  In- 
dians." 

On  the  other  hand,  Keokuk  had  a  de- 
cided Epicurean  tendency.  He  was  fond  of 
fire-water,  and  indulged  in  the  luxury  of  six 
wives.  "He  liked  to  travel  in  state  from  tribe 
to  tribe.  He  moved  in  more  savage  mag- 
nificence, it  is  supposed,  than  any  other  In- 
dian chief  on  the  continent"  (Drake's  Life, 
very  partial  to  Black  Hawk). 

Says  Stevens  (The  Black  Haivk  War,  Chi- 
cago, 1903 — a  book  unfriendly  to  Black 


368  HISTORIC  INTIMATIONS. 

Hawk):  "  Keokuk 's  oratory  was  so  perfect, 
his  logic  so  convincing,  his  person  so  mag- 
netic, and  his  pleas  so  engaging  that  poor 
Black  Hawk  made  a  sorry  figure  against  him. 
As  an  orator  Keokuk  had  no  equal  among  the 
red  men,  and  the  influence  it  acquired  for  him 
so  rankled  in  the  heart  of  Black  Hawk  that 
the  latter  could  never  overcome  his  hatred 
of  Keokuk"  (p.  44). 

The  fact  is,  the  two  Indians  were  opposite 
in  moral  temperament.  In  contrast  with 
Keokuk 's  Epicureanism,  stands  out  prom- 
inently Black  Hawk's  Stoicism.  In  his  Auto- 
biography Black  Hawk  condemns  fire-water 
as  "bad  medicine";  he  also  claims  to  have 
had  but  one  wife;  moreover,  like  a  good 
moralist,  he  sneers  at  Keokuk  as  "politic." 
On  the  whole,  the  pictures  of  Black  Hawk 
(see  them  in  Stevens)  show  an  ascetic,  thin- 
visaged,  Puritanic  look. 

There  is,  however,  some  evidence  that  he 
too  at  times  indulged  in  fire-water  and  polyg- 
amy, like  a  true  Indian  (and  some  white 
men).  This  evidence  can  be  found  in  his 
friendly  biographer,  Drake. 

But  the  pivotal  point  in  the  character  of 
Black  Hawk  is  contained  in  the  following 
statement  by  him,  which  may  indeed  be  said 
to  express  the  basic  consciousness  of  the  In- 
dian race:  "My  reason  teaches  me  that  land 


HISTORIC  INTIMATIONS.  359 

cannot  be  sold.  The  Great  Spirit  gave  it  to 
his  children  to  live  upon,  and  cultivate,  as 
far  as  is  necessary,  for  their  subsistence ;  and 
so  long  as  they  occupy  and  cultivate  it,  they 
have  the  right  to  the  soil,  but  if  they  volun- 
tarily leave  it,  then  any  other  people  have 
the  right  to  settle  upon  it.  Nothing  can  be 
sold  but  such  things  as  can  be  carried  away." 

Possibly  we  may  account  in  part  for  Keo- 
kuk  by  the  fact  that  he  had  white  (French) 
blood  in  his  veins,  through  his  mother.  The 
Sauks  originally  were  located  in  Canada  upon 
the  St.  Lawrence.  Thence  occurred  their  mi- 
gration westward  to  the  Great  Lakes,  toward 
the  end  of  the  17th  century;  next  they  are 
found  at  Green  Bay,  where  their  federation 
with  Foxes  took  place.  From  Wisconsin  they 
moved  southward,  dispossessing  and  destroy- 
ing other  Indians  till  they  reach  Rock  river, 
where  they  are  overtaken  by  the  white  Ameri- 
can migration  and  pushed  across  the  Missis- 
sippi. 

CANTO  V — The  interference  of  Lincoln  to 
protect  an  old  stray  Indian,  who  had  wan- 
dered into  the  camp  of  the  regiment,  is  given 
with  some  variations  by  the  biographers.  "We 
shall  cite  from  the  account  of  Hernclon,  who 
probably  heard  about  the  incident  from  the 
lips  of  Lincoln  himself  as  well  as  from  sol- 
diers of  the  Black  Hawk  War  (I.,  p.  87): 

24 


370  HISTORIC  INTIMATIONS. 

11  An  old  Indian  strayed,  hungry  and  helpless, 
into  camp  one  day,  whom  the  soldiers  were 
conspiring  to  kill  on  the  ground  that  he  was  a 
spy.  A  letter  from  General  Cass,  recom- 
mending him  for  his  past  kind  and  faithful 
services  to  the  whites,  which  the  trembling 
old  savage  drew  from  beneath  the  folds  of 
his  blanket,  failed  in  any  degree  to  appease 
the  wrath  of  the  men.  who  confronted  him. 
They  had  come  out  to  fight  the  treacherous 
Indians,  and  here  was  one  who  had  the  temer- 
ity even  to  steal  into  their  camp.  'Make  an 
example  of  him,*  they  exclaimed,  'the  letter 
is  a  forgery  and  he  is  a  spy.'  But  the  tall 
form  of  their  Captain  interposed  itself  be- 
tween them  and  their  defenseless  victim.  Lin- 
coln's  determined  look  and  the  demand  that 
it  must  not  be  done,  were  enough.  They  sul- 
lenly desisted,  and  the  Indian,  unmolested, 
continued  on  his  way." 

CANTO  VI— In  May,  1816,  United  States 
troops  landed  on  Eock  Island  and  began  to 
build  Fort  Armstrong,  named  after  the  late 
Secretary  of  War.  The  purpose  of  the  fort 
was  to  overawe  the  hostile  Indians  of  the  ad- 
jacent country,  of  whom  the  leading  spirit 
was  Black  Hawk.  Moreover,  the  Island  was 
a  kind  of  holy  spot  for  the  Indians,  with 
whose  mythology  it  was  connected.  This  is 
indicated  by  a  passage  in  Black  Hawk's  Auto- 
biography as  follows: 


HISTORIC  INTIMATIONS.  371 

"A  good  spirit  had  care  of  this  island  who 
lived  in  a  cave  in  the  rodks  immediately  un- 
der the  place  where  the  fort  now  stands,  and 
has  often  been  seen  by  our  people.  He  was 
white  with  large  wings  like  a  swan's,  but  ten 
times  larger.  TVe  were  particular  not  to  make 
much  noise  in  that  part  of  the  island  which 
he  inhabited,  for  fear  of  disturbing  him.  But 
the  noise  of  the  fort  has  since  driven  him 
away,  and  no  doubt  a  bad  spirit  has  taken  his 
place." 

CANTO  VII — From  Lincoln's  speech  before 
the  Convention  which  nominated  him  for  Sen- 
ator against  Douglas  (June  16th,  1858) : 

''In  my  opinion  it  (slavery  agitation)  will 
not  cease  till  a  crisis  shall  have  been  reached 
and  passed.  A  house  divided  against  itself 
cannot  stand.  I  believe  this  Government 
cannot  endure  permanently  half-slave,  half- 
free.  I  do  not  expect  the  Union  to  be  dis- 
solved, I  do  not  expect  the  House  to  fall,  but 
I  do  expect  it  will  cease  to  be  divided.  It 
will  become  all  one  thing  or  all  the  other." 

From  the  life  of  Jefferson  Davis  by  his 
wife  (I.,  p.  132) :  "Then  a  tall,  gawky/ slab- 
sided,  homely,  young  man,  dressed  in  a  suit 
of  bluejeans,  presented  himself  as  the  cap- 
tain of  a  company  of  recruits,  and  was  sworn 
in  by  Jefferson  Davis."  This  statement 
doubtless  is  derived  from  the  words  of  her 


372  HISTORIC  INTIMATIONS. 

husband.  Lincoln  also  believed  that  he  had 
been  sworn  in  by  Jefferson  Davis,  and  repeat- 
ed the  fact  to  Ben  Perley  Poore  and  others. 
Still  the  statement  has  been  questioned,  some- 
times on  one  ground  and  sometimes  on  an- 
other. 

From  the  same  biography  of  Davis  we 
learn  that  his  views  on  State  sovereignty 
were  fixed  already  in  1832,  which  year  was 
full  of  the  nullification  excitement,  the  Force 
Bill,  and  Jackson's  campaign  for  re-election. 
The  thought  that  Davis 's  regiment  might  be 
sent  by  Jackson  against  the  nullifiers,  had  al- 
ready been  weighed  by  the  young  Lieutenant 
with  this  result,  according  to  his  wife's  rec- 
ord :  He  resolved  to  resign  his  commission  in 
the  army,  though  by  education,  association 
and  preference  he  was  a  soldier,  rather  than 
be  a  party  to  the  coercion  of  a  State.  Thus 
Davis  must  have  been  thinking  amid  the 
Black  Hawk  War. 

In  1835  Davis  resigned  and  married  Miss 
Taylor,  daughter  of  the  General,  having  re- 
tired to  his  plantation  in  Mississippi.  The 
young  wife  died  the  same  year. 

In  the  Black  Hawk  War  Lieut.  Albert  Sid- 
ney Johnston  was  on  Gen.  Atkinson's  staff. 
Lieut.  Robert  Anderson  was  "Assistant  In- 
spector General  of  the  militia  with  the  rank 
of  Colonel  on  the  Governor's  staff."  Lieut. 
;  was  for  a  time  Adjutant  to  Taylor. 


HISTORIC  INTIMATIONS.  373 

CANTO  VIII — From  a  local  history  (Lee 
County)  has  been  transmitted  the  following 
speech  of  Taylor  to  some  mutinous  State 
troops:  "You  are  citizen  soldiers  and  some 
of  you  may  fill  high  offices,  or  even  be  Presi- 
dents some  day — but  never  unless  you  do 
your  duty."  The  fact  is  three  future  Presi- 
dents were  then  in  the  neighborhood,  possi- 
bly within  the  hearing  of  his  voice.  "Every 
American  citizen  has  in  him  the  total  gamut 
of  possibilities  between  the  Gallows  and  the 
Presidency,"  said  the  observant  politician 
upon  a  time. 

Accounts  agree  about  Keokuk's  treatment 
of  Black  Hawk  after  the  latter 's  defeat. 
(See  Drake's  Life  of  Black  Hawk,  p.  218). 
Keokuk  with  some  followers  came  up  the 
river  to  see  Black  Hawk,  who  was  a  prisoner 
at  Fort  Armstrong:  "Keokuk  kindly  ex- 
tended his  hand  to  Black  Hawk,  saying :  The 
Great  Spirit  has  sent  our  brother  back,  let 
us  shake  hands  with  him  in  friendship." 
Still  Black  Hawk  flared  up  seriously  once, 
and  Keokuk  had  to  apologize  for  him,  and  to 
intercede  with  the  military  authorities  for 
his  liberation.  The  outcome  was  that  Black 
Hawk  was  allowed  to  return  to  home  and  fam- 
ily. He  quietly  settled  down,  and  for  a  time 
took  up  his  abode  near  Keokuk's  village  on 
the  Iowa  River.  But  he  could  never  get  over 
his  hate  and  jealousy  of  his  rival.  On  an  im- 


374  HISTORIC  INTIMATIONS. 

portant  public  occasion  lie  said:  "Keokuk 
has  been  the  cause  of  my  present  situation, 
but  do  not  attach  blame  to  him."  This  was 
spoken  not  long  before  his  death,  which  oc- 
curred October  3rd,  1838. 

CANTO  IX — It  is  recorded  that  "the  com- 
pany of  Captain  lies  was  mustered  out  by 
Lieutenant  Eobert  Anderson  at  Fort  Wil- 
burn,"  south-east  of  Dixon's  Ferry  on  the 
Illinois,  an  important  depot  of  supplies 
(Captain  lies'  Life  and  Times,  by  himself, 
1883).  Lincoln  was  then  re-mustered  into 
the  new  company  of  Capt.  Early,  with  whom 
he  made  the  circle  to  Lake  Koshkonong  and 
back  again  to  Dixon's  Ferry.  The  expedi- 
tion to  Galena  and  return  took  place  with 
Capt.  lies. 

Stillman's  defeat  (May  14th)  was  merely 
a  panic  on  the  part  of  a  battalion  of  white 
volunteers,  275  in  number,  who  fled  disgrace- 
fully from  a  few  Indians.  But  it  prolonged 
the  war,  encouraged  the  Eeds,  and  fright- 
ened the  border  to  a  frenzy,  sending  indeed 
a  thrill  of  alarm  through  the  whole  Union. 
Moreover,  it  was  the  exploit  which  gave  to 
Black  Hawk  his  chief  fame  as  a  great  Indian 
commander.  The  Governor  of  the  State  is- 
sued a  new  call  for  troops.  The  Secretary  of 
War  sent  1,000  United  States  soldiers  from 
the  Seaboard,  and  General  Scott  was  or- 


HISTORIC  INTIMATIONS.  375 

dered  to  the  North-west  to  take  charge. 
(Drake,  p.  156).  Lincoln's  company  was  not 
with  Stillman,  but  hastened  to  the  field  of 
battle  the  next  day — May  15th — and  helped 
bury  the  dead  (Stevens,  p.  284).  Of  the  three 
enlistments  of  Lincoln,  the  first  has  been 
already  recorded;  the  second  was  when  he 
enlisted  as  a  private  with  Captain  lies  for 
twenty  days,  having  been  mustered  out  as 
captain  the  27th  of  May;  on  June  15th  he 
was  mustered  out  the  second  time,  and  re- 
enlisted  with  Captain  Early.  After  another 
round  of  considerable  extent,  he  was  mus- 
tered out  for  the  last  time  July  10th,  1832, 
and  started  for  home,  the  most  of  his  origi- 
nal company  having  already  gone  before 
him. 


THE  LINCOLN  TETRALOGY 

BY 

DENTON  J.  SNIDER. 

A  national  epos  in  four  separate  poems  cor- 
responding to  the  chief  epochs  of  Lincoln's 
career,  and  setting  forth  especially  his  inner  life 
and  its  transformations  along  with  the  outer 
events  of  his  time. 

I.  LINCOLN  IN  THE  BLACK  HAWK  WAR. 
The  first  pivotal  episode  in  Lin- 
coln's evolution,  written  in  free 
rhymed  tetrameters  .  .  .  .  .  $1.50 

II.  LINCOLN  AND  ANN  RUTLEDGE.  The 
love  idyl  of  Lincoln's  life,  written 
in  hexameters 1.50 

III.  LINCOLN  IN  THE  WHITE  HOUSE.    Lin- 

coln's development  through  inner 
and  outer  conflict  to  his  national 
greatness — blank  verse  and  prose  1.50 

IV.  LINCOLN  AT  RICHMOND,  portraying  his 

last  days  of  triumph  and  tragedy 

1.50 


